David Gemmell - Dark Prince

'They seem to be heading for the woods. I tell you, Parmenion, I do not like this world.'

'Nor I,' agreed the Spartan, kneeing the gelding into a canter. Attalus was about to follow when he spotted another corpse, a bowman lying on his back, his face torn away by crows. Dismounting, the Macedonian removed the man's leather quiver, hefting his short, curved bow of horn. Looping the quiver over his shoulder, Attalus vaulted to the grey and rode after the Spartan.

It felt good to have a bow in his hands again. Such a fine weapon. Silent death, with little risk to the killer. The Spartan's back was to him and Attalus pictured a shaft lancing into Parmenion's brain. No, he thought. There is no way I will kill him like that. I want to see the expression on his face. I want to watch the arrogance and pride drain away.

And I will, he promised himself. Once we find the boy — and a way home.

Chiron strolled beside the stream, his thoughts sombre. The world's Enchantment was fading fast. Now there were fewer than a hundred areas across the globe where primal magic oozed from rock and tree. Only seven remained in Achaea.

Kneeling by the water, he cupped his hands and drank. Philippos had been a bright, intelligent child, swift to learn, swifter to laugh. But the evil within him, the Spirit of Chaos, had finally won him, destroying all that was human, all that had knowledge of kindness and beauty.

Sorrow descended on Chiron like a terrible weight. His shoulders sagged and he lifted his eyes to the heavens.

'Perhaps it is time to die,' he said softly. 'Perhaps I have lived too long.' Rising, he walked from the trees to the slopes of his mountain and began the long climb to the cave.

He saw Caymal grazing nearby and waved, but the horse did not see him. Chiron's legs ached by the time he reached the cave and he stopped to rest for a moment, drawing the healing stone from the pouch at his side and holding it in his hand.

Strength flowed in his limbs and once more the desire came to let the magic stream into his blood, bringing him the full power of youth. But the once golden stone was almost drained of Enchantment and he dared not exhaust it.

Dropping it back in the pouch, he strode through the cave and on into the palace, seeking Alexander.

The boy was nowhere in sight. At first Chiron was unworried. The palace was large, with a score of rooms; all children loved to explore and many of the rooms here contained artefacts that would fascinate a child like Alexander.

But as time passed Chiron's concern grew. Surely the boy would have more sense than to wander away into the forest, he thought.

Then he came to the room of the mirror table and saw the severed hand on the cold marble floor, the talons stained with blood.

'No!' he whispered. 'No!' Moving to the table, he saw that the cloth had been hastily thrown over it. With trembling hands Chiron eased it clear and found himself staring down into the tent of Philippos. The King was sitting upon an ebony throne. He looked up, his golden eye gleaming in the firelight.

'Ah, you are back, my friend,' said the King. 'How are you faring?'

'Better than you, I fear,' answered Chiron.

'How can that be? I am Makedon, and my armies conquer all who stand in my way. Better than that, I am invulnerable.'

'You are inhuman, Philippos. There is nothing left of the boy I knew.'

The King's laughter filled the room. 'Nonsense, Chiron! I am he. But, as a man, it is necessary to put aside childish ways. Where am I different from the kings who ruled before me?'

'I will not debate with you. You are no longer human. Your soul is long dead; you fought a brave battle against the Dark, and it defeated you. I pity you.'

'Save your pity, Chiron,' said the King, no trace of anger in his tone. 'It is misplaced. I did not suffer defeat -1

overcame the Chaos Spirit and now he serves me. But you have something that I desire. Will you give it to me — or must I take it?'

Chiron shook his head. 'You must take it… if you can. But it will serve no purpose. The child will not bring you immortality. He is not Iskander; he is the son of a King in another land.'

Philippos stood. 'If he is not the One, then I will keep searching. I will have what I desire, Chiron. It is my destiny.'

'There is no more to say,' said Chiron. 'Begone!' His hand swept across the surface of the table and, for a moment only, the mirror shimmered into darkness. Then the face of Philippos returned.

'You see,' hissed the King, 'you no longer even have the power to dismiss my image. Send me the boy — or I will see your blood flow upon my altar. You know that I can do it, Chiron. All your centuries of life will be gone. You will be no more. That frightens you, doesn't it? I can see it in your eyes. Bring me the child and you will live. Defy me and I will make your death last as long as your life.'

The mirror darkened. Chiron covered it and backed from the room, running up the stairs and out through the cave.

Then he saw Kytin's bow and quiver lying where the centaur had left them, and heard the beating of wings from the sky above him.

Kytin galloped across the sunlit clearing, reared, and sent an arrow flashing into the heart of a hovering Vore whose wings collapsed, its pale form crashing to the grass. A black dart narrowly missed Kytin's head and the centaur swung to send a second arrow winging its way into his assailant's belly.

Eleven centaurs were down and more than thirty Vores, but still they came — their great wings flapping, their deadly missiles slashing through the air.

'Back under the trees!' shouted Kytin. 'They cannot fly there!' Several centaurs made a dash for the forest, but amid the stamping hooves, the beating of wings and the screams of the dying many others could not hear him and fought on. A Vore dropped from the sky to Kytin's back, sharp talons cutting into the centaur's shoulder. The old man bellowed in rage and pain, bucking and flinging the creature into the air. Its wings spread wide, halting its fall. Kytin leapt forward, his huge hands grabbing the scrawny neck and twisting savagely, snapping the hollow bones of the Vore's throat.

A dart sliced into Kytin's back, the poison streaming into his blood like acid. The imminence of death galvanized the centaur. Twisting and rearing he galloped to Gaea's hut, ducking inside the doorway and stepping over the dart-pierced body of the old healer to gather up the still-sleeping child. Kytin's legs almost buckled, but with a supreme effort of will he raced back out into the daylight with the boy held safe in his arms, and thundered towards the trees.

Two more darts struck him, one piercing the flesh beside his long spine, the other glancing from his hind-quarters.

Then he was past his attackers and on to the mountain path.

Vores soared up above the trees, but they could not easily follow him, for the branches were interlaced like a canopy over the trail. Several of the creatures flew low, but the undergrowth was thick, overhanging limbs hampering their flight.

Kytin galloped on, the poison spreading through his limbs. Twice he stumbled and almost fell, but drew on his reserves of strength and courage, holding himself alive by the power of his dream.

Iskander! He had to rescue the boy. The Enchantment had to be saved.

He ran on deeper into the forest, seeking a cave, a hollow tree — anywhere he could hide the boy. But his eyes were veiled by a grey mist that swirled across his mind, and so many thoughts flitted by him, old memories, scenes of triumph and tragedy. He saw again the fight with Boas, the great ride to Cadmos, his marriage to Elena, the birth of his first child. .

The boy awoke and struggled in his arms.

'It is all right, Iskander,' he told him, his voice slurred now. 'I will save you.'