David Gemmell - Dark Prince

'I know,' said Thena. 'Now we must wait.'

'For what? I have seen enough.'

'There is more, my dear,' she told him.

The enemy soldiers pulled baek from the ledge, seeking a way to recover the body. But the cliff was too steep and they remounted their horses and vanished from sight.

'Now,' said Thena. 'Before they can circle round from the north, we must get to the body.'

'Why?'

'There is no time to explain. Trust me.' Remounting, Thena urged her horse over the crest of the hill and down the gentle slope to the valley floor. Parmenion had no wish to gaze upon the ruined body of so great a warrior, but he followed the priestess on the long ride, coming at last to the blood-spattered corpse. Thena climbed down from her mount and moved to the body, gently rolling it to its back. The red-plumed helm lay close by, scarcely dented, but the breastplate was split at the shoulder, where a white bone could be seen jutting from dead flesh.

The man's face was remarkably untouched, his blue eyes open and staring at the sky. Parmenion moved to the body and stopped, heart hammering and legs unsteady.

'I am sorry,' whispered Thena, 'but you stand before the body of Parmenion, the King of Sparta.'

Parmenion could find no words as he gazed down at his own corpse. He had observed Thena's magic back in the forest when she had created the illusion of the group still sleeping around the camp-fire. Though in its way that had been almost amusing, causing a lifting of tension and fear. But this was real. The dead man at his feet was his twin, and Parmenion felt the anguish of bereavement. Worse than this, the tragedy brought him a sickening sense of his own mortality. The Parmenion lying here had been a man with dreams, hopes, ambitions. Yet he had been cut down in his prime, his body smashed, broken.

The Spartan took a deep, shuddering breath.

'We must move him,' said Thena, 'before the Makedones arrive.'

'Why?' responded Parmenion, unwilling to touch his alter ego .

'Because they must not know he is dead. Come now! Lift him across your horse.'

Parmenion's hands were trembling as he pulled the corpse upright, draping the body over his shoulder, transferring it to the Makedones gelding, then vaulting to the beast's back. The horse was strong, but even so could not bear the double weight for long. Parmenion turned to see Thena sitting upon a boulder.

'Take my horse to the woods,' she commanded. 'I will be there by dusk.'

'You cannot stay here. They will kill you.'

'No, they will not see me. When you reach the woods strip the body and bury it. Then put on his armour. Go now!'

Parmenion tugged the reins and the gelding began to walk away to the west. 'Wait!' called Thena. Gathering up the King's fallen sword and helm, she passed them to Parmenion. 'Now ride — for time is short.'

The ground was rock-strewn and hard-packed, the gelding's hooves leaving little sign as the Spartan rode away. Now and again he glanced back to see Thena sitting quietly, awaiting the Makedones. He tried not to look at the body, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was no longer leaking blood, but the bowels had opened and the stench was strong.

There is no dignity in death, thought Parmenion as he angled the horse up to the tree-line and into the woods.

Once there he followed Thena's instructions, stripping the body, digging out a shallow grave in the loam and rolling the corpse into it. The body fell to its back — dead eyes staring up at the Spartan, dead mouth sagging open.

'I have no coin for the ferryman,' Parmenion told the dead King. 'But you were a man of courage and I believe you will find the Elysian Fields without it.'

Swiftly he pushed the dark earth over the body, then sat back trembling.

After a while he picked up the King's sword, and was not surprised to find it the same blade he himself had won more than thirty years ago in another Sparta. It was the legendary blade of Leonidas, the Sword King, beautifully crafted and wondrously sharp.

Leonidas! A glorious name from the past yet also the name of Parmenion's first enemy, the brother of Derae, in whose name Parmenion had suffered taunts and beatings, hatred and dark violence.

That era had come to an end at Leuctra when Parmenion's battle plan had smashed the Spartan line, killing their King and freeing the city of Thebes from Spartan dictatorship. When the battle ended, so too had Spartan power in Greece.

Parmenion remembered well the day he had won the sword. It was the final of the General's Games where the young men of Sparta, using carved model armies, engaged in battles of tactics and strategy. The final was contested at the house of Xenophon, the renegade Athenian general who had become a close friend of the Spartan King Agisaleus.

Agisaleus, believing his nephew Leonidas would win the final, had offered the legendary blade as a prize. But Leonidas had not won. He had been crushed by the hated' mix-blood, humiliated in front of his peers and his King.

And the sword came to Parmenion.

Yet at Leuctra, with Sparta crushed, it had been Leonidas who had come to discuss the recovery from the battlefield of the Spartan dead, and it was Parmenion to whom he had come.

Leonidas had been dignified in defeat, strong and proud, and — in a moment he had never quite understood -

Parmenion had given him the sword, ending for ever their enmity.

Yet now he sat in an alien forest with the twin of the blade in his hand.

What now, he asked himself? But the answer was inescapable. Parmenion the King had been slain, leaving his enemy triumphant and the Spartan army leaderless.

The Demon King had won.

Derae watched until Parmenion was no longer in sight, then she relaxed, calming her mind, honing her powers, reaching out to seek the Makedones riders who were coming to claim the body of their enemy.

They were still half a mile distant and she focused on the leader, Theoparlis — a stocky, dark-eyed man, strong and fearless, his heart darkened by bitter memories of slavery and torture in the early years of his life. Derae floated within his subconscious, silently preparing him. Then she moved on to the others, one by one.

When at last she opened her eyes they were riding towards the rocks, fanning out, their eyes scanning the boulders.

Drawing rein they dismounted and began to search.

Derae took a deep breath. Not a man had noticed her. Now she stood.

'He is not here,' she said softly. The nearest man gasped and staggered back. He did not see a tall, bony woman in an ill-fitting chiton . His eyes widened in awe as he drank in the sight of a regal warrior woman, a doric helm pushed back on her head, a golden breastplate adorning her torso. An owl sat upon her shoulder, its bright eyes blinking in the sunlight.

The twenty warriors stood silently before Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War. In her hand was a golden spear, and this she raised to point at Theoparlis. 'Return to your King,' she said, her voice ringing with authority, 'and tell him that Parmenion lives.'

'He will kill us all, lady, and brand us liars,' Theoparlis protested.

'Draw your swords,' she said softly. They did so. 'Now gaze upon them.'

The blades writhed in their hands, becoming serpents. With cries of shock and horror the men flung the weapons aside… all but Theoparlis. 'It is still a sword,' he said, his face white, his hand trembling.

The serpent blade stiffened, the snake disappearing. 'Indeed it is, Theoparlis; you are a strong man,' said Derae. 'But then the magic was not wrought to harm you but to allow you to go to your King and convince him. Has he not the Eye to read a man's mind? He will know you do not lie.'

'How could the Spartan have survived such a fall?' he asked.