David Gemmell - Dark Prince

The old woman's head sank down to rest on the tip of the staff. 'Why now,' she whispered, 'when I am so weak?' For a moment she was silent, then she drew in a deep breath and raised herself to her full height 'Bring him in, Kytin. I will do what I can.'

The centaur eased past her, laying the unconscious boy on a narrow pallet bed. Alexander's lips and eyelids were blue now, and he scarcely seemed to breathe. 'You must save him,' urged Kytin. 'You must!'

'Hush, fool,' she told him, 'and go to your privacy. Your flanks are trembling and the Need is upon you. Go now, before you shame yourself in public.'

Kytin backed away, leaving the old woman sitting on the bed beside the dying child. Taking his hand, she felt the fever raging. 'You should have come to us twenty years ago,' she whispered, 'when my powers were at their height.

Now I am old and near useless. My pony is dying and will not see out the winter. What would you have me do, Iskander — if you are truly Iskander?'

The boy stirred, moaning in delirium. 'Par. . menion!'

'Hush, child,' said Gaea, her voice soothing. Pulling open the tunic she laid a wrinkled, bony hand upon the festering scars. The heat scalded her skin and her mouth tightened. 'That the Enchantment should have sired such creatures.

.' she said, her voice acid and bitter. Her hand began to glow, the bones standing out like dark shadows below the skin as if a lantern was hidden under her palm. Smoke writhed from the boy's chest, flowing through her outstretched fingers, and the wounds sealed, pus oozing to the skin of his chest. The smoke hung in a tight sphere above him, dark and swirling. 'Begone!' hissed the old woman. The sphere exploded and a terrible stench filled the roundhouse.

Alexander groaned, but the colour flowed back to his pale cheeks and he sighed.

Gaea stood, staggered and reached for her staff. An elderly man, stooped and bent, edged his way into the room.

'Does he live?' he asked, his voice thin, whispering through rotted teeth.

'He lives, Kyaris. You brought him in time. How can you be sure he is Iskander?'

The old man moved slowly to a chair by a burning brazier, sitting and holding his hands to the blaze. 'He told me.

And the Tyrant seeks him, Gaea, to kill him and become immortal. Who else can he be?'

'He could be a human child — and that is all. The Tyrant is not infallible; he has been wrong before.'

'Not this time. I can feel it.'

'In your bones, I suppose,' she snapped. 'I swear your horse has more sense than you. The Vores marked him; that means they know where he is. How long before their wings are beating the wind above this wood? Eh? How long?'

'But if he is Iskander we must protect him. He is our hope, Gaea!'

'Hopes! Dreams!' snorted the old woman. 'They are like smoke in the breeze. I once dreamt of Iskander. But no more.

Now I wait for my pony to die, and to leave this world of blood and pain. Look at him! How old is he? Four, five?

You think he will lead us from peril? His mouth still yearns for his mother's tits!'

Kyaris shook his head, his wispy white hair floating like mist against his face. 'Once you had belief. But you are old, and your faith has gone. Well, I too am old, but I still have hopes. Iskander will save us. He will restore the Enchantment. He will!'

'Cling to your nonsense if you will, old man — but tomorrow be ready with bow and spear. For the Vores will come, and after them the Makedones. Your stupidity will see us all destroyed.'

Kyaris struggled to his feet. 'Better to die than to live without hope, Gaea. I have sons, and sons of my sons. I want them to see the return of the Enchantment. I will fight the Vores; they will not take the child.'

'Find a mirror, you old fool,' she taunted him. 'Once the words of Kyaris-Kytin echoed like thunder across the world.

Now you can scarce stand without support. Even Merged you cannot run far.'

'I am sorry for you,' he told her. Moving to the bedside, he laid his hand on the sleeping child's brow. 'Sleep well, Iskander,' he whispered.

'Sell him to Philippos,' she advised. 'That would be true wisdom.'

'There is no wisdom in despair, woman,' he answered.

Parmenion and Attalus rode from the woods, angling down towards the plain and the distant, shimmering River Peneios. Clouds were bunching in the sky, huge and rolling, promising a storm, but the wind was still warm, the rain holding off. Attalus eased his grey alongside Parmenion.

'Where do we go, strategos ?'

'Across the plain and into those woods,' answered the Spartan, pointing to the western hills on which the tree-line curved like the crest of a giant helmet.

The first drops of rain began to fall, then a crack of thunder sounded. Attalus' stallion reared, almost dislodging the Macedonian. Lightning forked across the sky and the deluge began. The horses walked now, heads bowed, the riders drenched and conversation impossible.

Glancing to his left, Attalus saw a body lying on the grass, the legs stripped of flesh. Beyond it was another, then another. Attalus leaned to his right, tapping Parmenion's arm and pointing to the corpses. The Spartan nodded, but said nothing. For most of the morning they rode on through the deserted battlefield and at last the rain died away, the sun streaming through the broken clouds.

'There were thousands of them,' said Attalus, swinging to stare back over the plain. 'They weren't even stripped of weapons.'

Parmenion reined in the gelding. 'I would guess the main battle was fought there,' he said, indicating a low range of hills. 'But — judging by the way the corpses are grouped — the left broke and the defeated army ran west. They were cut down by cavalry and tried to make a stand. No prisoners were taken and they were massacred to a man.'

'A world not unlike our own,' said Attalus, forcing a smile. But it faded swiftly.

'You are wrong. This is a war unlike any I have seen,' muttered the Spartan, his pale eyes scanning the battlefield.

'This is not just conquest; this is butchery. I would not wish to be part of such a conflict.'

Attalus dismounted and walked to a nearby corpse, kneeling to lift the dead warrior's shield. It was fashioned of wood, reinforced by bronze, and painted blue. At the centre two snakes were depicted, held in a man's fist. 'Have you ever seen anything like it?' he asked, passing the shield up to Parmenion.

'No. It is obviously meant to be Heracles killing the snakes in his crib. It could be Theban; their shields carry the club of Heracles.'

'I see nothing I recognize,' said Attalus, nudging his foot under the corpse and flicking the body to its back. Picking up a dented helm, he turned it in his hands. It was of leather, covered by thin sheets of what appeared to be bright bronze. There was no crest or plume, no cheeks-flaps to protect the face, merely two badly-cast raven's wings, loosely riveted to the temples, and a slender metal bar that dropped vertically from the brow. 'Badly made,' said Attalus, 'and these wings serve no purpose,' he added. 'Look at the nasal guard. It is too thin to protect the face. The entire piece is useless — as I think he found.'

Tossing the helm to the ground, Attalus remounted. 'These bodies have been here for weeks, maybe months. Why have they not been stripped?'

'Perhaps there is no one left alive to strip them,' said Parmenion.

Dark shadows flowed along the grass. Parmenion gazed up to see a score of pale shapes soaring high in the sky, moving westward, their great wings beating slowly. Despite the height at which they flew, and the brightness of the sun, there was no doubt as to their semi-human shape.

'What in the name of Hecate. .?' whispered Attalus.

The creatures were joined by a second group coming from the north. Shading his eyes, Parmenion saw more of the beasts flying in from south and west. 'They are coming from all sides,' he said.