David Gemmell - Dark Prince

'No,' admitted Parmenion, 'my thoughts were on other matters. Did you enjoy your swim?'

'It cooled me for a while. Where is the sorcerer?'

'He will be back soon. He has gone to see if the centaurs need his help.'

Alexander climbed into view, the steps on the cliff path almost too high for him. He waved as he saw Parmenion and moved alongside him, sitting close. Instinctively the Spartan put his arm around the boy. Attalus said nothing, but Parmenion felt his gaze.

'We must make our way down to the Gulf of Corinth,' said Parmenion swiftly, 'and then to Sparta. We can only hope that Aristotle will find a way to us there.'

'Hope?' sneered Attalus. 'I would like something stronger than that. But why Sparta? Why not return to the Circle of Stones and wait? That is where he sent us. Surely that is where he will expect us to be?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'The enemy are everywhere — and they have used sorcery to locate Alexander. We could not hope to survive alone against them. Sparta holds out. We will be safe there. And Aristotle is a magus ; he will find us.'

'I am not convinced. Why not wait here?' argued Attalus.

'I wish that we could, but Chiron does not believe we are safe even here. The King's reach is long, his powers great.

Are you beginning to regret your decision to accompany me?'

Attalus chuckled. 'I began to regret it the moment we rode from the Circle. But I will stay the course, Spartan.'

'I did not doubt it.'

'Look! A ship!' cried Alexander, pointing out to sea where a trireme was sailing gracefully into view, its black sail furled, its three banks of oars rising and dipping into the sparkling blue water. Slowly the prow turned until the craft was pointing to the shore.

Closer it came until the watchers could see clearly the hundred or so armed men gathering on the great deck.

'Friendly, do you think?' asked Attalus as the ship was beached, the warriors clambering to the sand.

'They are Makedones,' said Alexander, 'and they are coming for me.’

‘Then some of them will die,' said Attalus softly.

'Back into the palace,' ordered Parmenion, sweeping Alexander into his arms and moving away from the cliff-edge.

Far below them the Makedones soldiers began the long climb up the steep path, sunlight glinting from spear and sword.

Parmenion ran into the palace kitchens where he had put aside his breastplate, helm and sword. Donning the armour, he lifted Alexander and made his way swiftly to the wide stairway, taking the steps two at a time.

'What if those flying creatures are still on the other side?' asked Attalus as they reached the illusory wall.

'We die,' muttered Parmenion, drawing his sword and stepping through to Chiron's cave. It was empty. Lowering Alexander to the ground the Spartan moved to the cave-mouth, scanning the mountainside. The dead grey stallion lay where it had fallen, black crows squabbling over the carcass. Beyond the stallion lay the corpses of more than thirty Vores, but these the crows avoided. Of Parmenion's gelding there was no sign.

'We'd be safer in the woods,' said Attalus. Parmenion nodded and the trio crossed the open mountainside, reaching the sanctuary of the trees without incident.

The woods were unnaturally silent. No bird-song sweetened the air, and not a trace of breeze disturbed the canopied branches above. The silence made both warriors uneasy, but Alexander was happy walking beside his hero, holding Parmenion's hand. They walked deeper into the woods, keeping to a narrow game trail that twisted, rose and fell until it reached a shallow stream where cool mountain water rippled over white stones.

'Do we cross it — or follow it?' asked Attalus, keeping his voice low. Before Parmenion could answer they heard sound of movement from the trail ahead, the snapping of dried wood underfoot. Then came voices, muffled by the undergrowth.

Gathering the child, Parmenion backed away towards the bushes, Attalus beside him. But before they could find a place in which to hide, a warrior in a raven-winged helm appeared on the other side of the stream.

'Here!' he bellowed. The child is here!'

More than a score of dark-cloaked soldiers carrying spears and swords ran to join him. Attalus' blade hissed from its scabbard.

Parmenion swung round. Behind them was a narrow track. On either side were thick stands of thorn bushes and brambles. From where he stood the Spartan could see no end to the track, but glancing down he saw cloven hoofprints of deer leading away up the slope.

The Makedones surged forward into the water, the woods echoing with their screams of triumph.

'Run!' shouted Parmenion, holding Alexander tight to his chest as he set off along the track. Thorns cut into his calves and thighs as he ran, and twice he almost stumbled as dry dust shifted beneath his sandalled feet. The slope was steep, the track meandering, but at last he emerged to a wider trail bordered by huge, gnarled oaks. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Attalus some ten paces back, the pursuing Makedones closing on him. A soldier paused in his run to hurl a spear.

'Look out!' shouted Parmenion and Attalus swerved left, the weapon slashing past him to bury itself in the ground in front of the swordsman. Attalus grabbed the shaft as he ran, pulling it from the earth. Turning suddenly, he launched the spear back at the thrower. The soldier threw himself to the ground, the missile taking the man behind him full in the throat.

Spinning on his heel, Attalus raced after Parmenion. The Spartan ran on, seeking always narrow tracks that would keep the enemy in single file behind them, and as he ran his anger grew. There was no strategy here for victory, no subtle plan to swing a battle. Outnumbered, they were being hunted through an alien wood by a deadly enemy. All that was left was to run. But where? For all Parmenion knew they were heading towards an even greater enemy force, or worse perils.

It was galling to the point of rage. All his life the Spartan had survived by outthinking and outplanning his enemies.

He was the strategos , the general. Yet here he had been reduced to the level of the panic-stricken prey, running for his life.

No, he realized, not panic-stricken. Never that!

In his youth he had been a distance runner, the fastest and the best in Sparta and Thebes, and now — even burdened by the child — he knew he could outlast the Makedones. But the problem was where to run. Glancing up at the sky, he tried to establish his position in the woods. The cave would be to the left. Yet what purpose would be served by returning there? They could pass the wall and escape their immediate pursuers, only to be caught by the soldiers searching the palace beyond. No, the cave was no answer.

A fallen tree lay across his path and he hurdled it effortlessly. Ahead the trail forked, one path rising, the other dipping down into a shadow-haunted glen. A spear flashed by him. Cutting right, he made for the glen.

Three soldiers ran into his path some thirty paces ahead. Cursing, he twisted to his left and leapt a low bush, scrambling up a steep rise to emerge in a circular clearing in a hollow ringed by cypress trees. Attalus came alongside, his face red from exertion, sweat glistening on his skin.

'I… can run… no further,' said the swordsman.

Ignoring him, Parmenion moved to a nearby tree, lifting Alexander to the lowest branch. 'Climb into that fork and crouch down,' ordered the Spartan. 'You will not be seen from the ground.' The boy pushed his small body through the pine needles and lay, hidden from view.

Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran back to the edge of the slope and waited. The first Makedones warrior scrambled up — and screamed as Parmenion's blade smote his neck. The soldier tumbled back amongst his comrades.