David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Her thoughts sped back over the years, her mind's eye picturing the gardens of Xenophon's home near Olympia where she and Parmenion, uncaring of danger, had kissed and touched and loved. Five days: the longest and shortest five days of her life. The longest because her memories dwelt in them, seizing on every passionate moment, the shortest because of the weight of the barren years that followed.

The seeress Tamis was the source of all the pain Derae had endured, yet in truth it was impossible to hate her for it.

The old woman had been obsessed by a dream, her mind dominated by one ambition — to prevent the birth of the Dark God. Walking the paths of the many futures, Tamis had discovered all the identities of the men who could be used by Chaos to sire the demon. What she needed was a man to use as a weapon against them — a Sword of the Source.

In order to achieve her desire she caused Derae to be taken from Sparta and hurled into the sea off the coast of Troy, her hands bound behind her. When Parmenion discovered her fate it unleashed within him a terrible hatred, changing his destiny and setting him on the path of revenge. All this had been planned by Tamis, in order that Parmenion would become the man of destiny she longed for.

It would have been better, thought Derae, had I died in that sea. But Tamis had rescued her, keeping her prisoner in the Temple, filling her head with lies and half-truths.

And for what?

Parmenion did kill all the possible fathers save one. Himself.

'I will not miss this life,' she said aloud.

She shivered as fear touched her soul. Gazing up with her spirit eyes she saw the image of Philippos hovering in the air above the camp-site, his golden eye staring at her and probing her thoughts. Filling her head with memories of the past she obscured all her fears of the present, while the power of the Eye whispered through her mind like a cold, cold breeze.

In the distance she could hear the stealthy sounds of men creeping through the forest and her fear swelled. She licked her lips, but there was no moisture on her tongue. Her heart began to hammer.

Just then she felt the elation of Philippos as he gazed down on the sleeping child. Anger flared in Derae and she let fall the spell, revelling in the King's shock and disappointment as the bodies disappeared.

Rising from her body, she faced Philippos. They have escaped you,' she said.

For a moment he did not reply, then a smile appeared on his handsome, bearded face. 'You have been clever, witch.

But no one escapes me for long. Who are you?'

'The enemy,' she answered.

'A man is judged by the strength of his enemies, Derae. Where is the boy?'

The golden eye glowed, but Derae fled for the sanctuary of her body, her hand closing around the golden stone and shielding her thoughts.

'I do hope you will gain some enjoyment from your last hours alive,' came the voice of the King. 'I know my men will.'

Soldiers burst clear of the bushes surrounding the clearing. Derae stood — and waited for death, her mind suddenly calm.

Two men ran forward to pin her arms, while a third strode out to stand before her. 'Where are they?' he asked, his right hand on her throat, his fingers digging into her cheeks.

'Where you will not find them,' she answered icily. Releasing her chin he struck her savagely with his open hand, splitting her lip.

'I think you would be wise to tell me,' he warned her.

'I have nothing to say to you.'

Slowly he drew his dagger. 'You will tell me all I wish to know,' he assured her, his voice deepening, his face flushing. 'If not now — then later.' His fingers hooked into the neck of her tunic, the dagger slicing through the material, which he ripped clear to expose her breasts and belly. Sheathing the blade he moved in, his hand sliding over her skin, fingers forcing themselves between her legs.

She felt her emotions swamped by the surging lust of the men all around her, then the soldier whispered an obscenity in her ear.

All her adult life Derae had followed the path of the Source, knowing with cold certainty that she would rather die than kill. But in the moment he spoke all her training fled away, taking with it the years of devotion and dedication.

All that was left was the girl from Sparta — and in her ran the blood of a warrior race.

Her head came up, her eyes meeting his. 'Die,' she whispered. His eyes widened. The stone in her hand grew warmer.

Suddenly he gasped and fell back with blood spurting from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

'She's a witch!' someone shouted, as the officer's lifeless body slumped to the earth. The men holding her tightened their grip on her upper arms, but she raised her hands — which transformed themselves into cobras, hooded and hissing. The soldiers leapt back from her. Spinning on her heel she pointed the snakes at them. Lightning leapt from the serpents' mouths, smashing the men from their feet.

Derae swung once more, as the remaining soldiers drew their weapons and rushed at her. A flash of brilliant light seared across the clearing, blinding the warriors, causing them to stumble and fall.

In the confusion that followed Derae strode from the camp-site and into the woods.

Derae moved silently towards the south, drawing her cloak tightly around her naked frame. The trees were thinner here, the stars bright above them, and she broke into a loping run, following a path that sloped down to where a dark stream rippled over black stones.

In the distance behind her she could hear the shouts of the soldiers, but she knew they would not catch her now. They were blundering around in the dark, with no idea of the direction she had taken.

Come daylight it would be different, when they could send the Vores soaring above the trees to hunt her in the sunshine. But this was the night — and it was hers! She had waited for the enemy, fooled them and killed at least one.

A savage joy flowed through her, filling her body with strength as she ran.

Suddenly she faltered and slowed.

I killed a man!

The joy vanished, to be replaced by a numbing sense of horror. What have you become? she asked herself.

Her gaze flickered to the silent trees, her spirit recoiling from the malevolence of the forest. This place of evil had touched her, eroding all her beliefs, all the years of her dedication.

Falling to her knees Derae prayed for forgiveness, sending her thoughts up and out into the void and beyond. But she felt them echoing in a vast emptiness, seemingly unheard and certainly unanswered. Wearily she rose and walked on toward the south, making herself one promise that she swore to keep for as long as she lived. Never would she kill again.

Never.

On the morning of the third day since they had left the priestess, Parmenion awoke to see Gorgon kneeling over the sleeping form of Brontes. The minotaur was not moving and Gorgon's hand was resting lightly on the creature's chest. Parmenion's heart sank. For the last two days the minotaur had stumbled on, unspeaking, his eyes weary and bloodshot, his limbs leaden.

'You can make it,' Parmenion had told him the previous afternoon. But Brontes had not replied, his huge bull's head sagging forward, his gaze locked to the ground at his feet. The group had made camp early, for Brontes had been unable to keep up with the pace. Now Parmenion rose and moved alongside Gorgon.

'Is he dead?' he asked.

'Soon,' answered Gorgon. Parmenion knelt by the minotaur. Blood was seeping from both nostrils and he was barely breathing.

'What can we do?' the Spartan asked.

'Nothing,' grunted Gorgon.

'How soon will we be clear of the forest?'

'Not for another day.'