David Gemmell - Dark Prince

For the first time Leonidas saw the Demon King at the centre of his regiment, a bright sword in his hand.

All was chaos now, the battle no longer the standard parallel lines of opposing forces. By breaking the Spartan right Leonidas had gambled everything on crushing the enemy centre.

But here stood the Demon King. And he was invulnerable.

Even in the thick of the fighting, his sword-arm weary, Parmenion knew that the pivotal point in the battle had been reached. He could feel it, in the same way that a runner senses the presence of an unheard rival closing behind him.

The Makedones were fighting furiously, but there was an edge of panic in them. For years they had fought and won, and s this battle was to have been their easiest victory. That expectation had] been cruelly crushed, and their morale was now brittle and ready to "] crack.

Parmenion blocked a savage thrust, slashing his own blade through his attacker's neck in a deadly riposte. The man fell back, and for a moment Parmenion was clear of the action. He swung, looking to the left where Learchus and his regiment were once more making headway against the Regulars. To the right and rear Timasion was urging his men forward into the Illyrians in a bid to reach the centre of the field.

All around the King the slaves were standing firm, though their losses were great, and Parmenion felt afresh the surging determination not to lose. These men deserved a victory.

But there was no place for strategy now. Amid the carnage of the battleground there was room only for strength of arm, allied to the courage of the human spirit. The Makedones fought only for conquest and plunder, while the slaves were fighting for their freedom and the Spartans battling for city, home and honour. The difference was significant as the two armies, their formations broken, fought man to man on the blood-soaked field.

A movement on the hilltops to the south-west caught Parmenion's eye. The swirling dust made identification difficult at first, then the King saw the giant form of Gorgon moving down the slope. Behind him ^ came hundreds of beasts from the forest, some reptilean and scaled, others covered in matted fur. Many were armed with crude clubs of knotted oak, but most needed no weapon save fang and claw. Vores circled above them and, at a signal from Gorgon, swooped down over the Makedones ranks to hurl their poison-tipped darts.

The Makedones at the rear saw the monsters approaching — and panicked. Throwing aside their weapons they fled the battlefield. Others, with more courage, tried to link shields against this new enemy.

The forest creatures fell upon the Makedones with terrible force, their talons slicing through armour and chain-mail, ripping flesh and snapping bones like rotten wood. Nothing could withstand them.

The Guards' defences collapsed.

One moment they were an army, the next a seething, frightened horde desperate to escape.

Gorgon, wielding two iron clubs, clove into their ranks, smashing men from their feet. His pale eyes glowed.

Warriors in his path screamed and froze, their bodies stiffening, shrinking, crumbling to the earth, dry and withered.

Seeing the panic among the Guards, the Illyrians facing Timasion's regiment turned and fled.

Now only a tight-knit fighting square surrounded the Demon King. Philippos drew his sword and waited, secure in his invincibility. Gorgon broke through the shield-wall, one huge club hammering down on the King's shoulder. But the weapon bounced clear and Philippos leapt forward, his sword cleaving into Gorgon's chest. The Forest Lord staggered back with dark blood gushing from the wound. Philippos advanced but Brontes hurled himself forward, dropping his axe and curling his huge arms around the King's frame. The King struggled in his grip, trying to turn his sword on this new attacker, but Brontes pinned the King's arms to his side, lifting him from his feet. Philippos screamed but could not free himself.

The last Makedones resistance crumpled, men throwing down their swords and falling to their knees begging for mercy. At first they were cut down despite their pleas, but Parmenion's voice rose above the battle.

'Enough! Let them live!'

A strange, unnatural quiet fell over the battlefield. To the south the once invincible army of Makedon was fleeing in disorder. Here at the centre the remaining Makedones laid down their weapons.

Brontes threw the Demon King to the ground, dragging back the defeated monarch's arms and calling for thongs to bind him. An archer offered his spare bowstring. Brontes tied the King's thumbs together and then stood, watching Philippos struggle to his knees.

Helm stepped forward and stood before Philippos, staring down into the King's face. Then he staggered and seemed about to fall. Attalus leapt to his side, catching him.

'Are you all right?' the Macedonian asked. Helm did not answer and Attalus saw the bronze face stiffen and swell, becoming solid once more. The enchanted warrior lifted his hand to the helm he now wore; it was no longer part of his face.

Yet he did not remove it.

Parmenion moved swiftly to where Gorgon lay, his lifeblood draining to the churned ground. Kneeling beside the monster Parmenion took his hand, but could find no words for the dying Titan.

Gorgon's eyes opened. 'Surprised to see me?' asked the Forest King.

'Yes. But you were more than welcome, my friend. I think you saved us.'

'No. They were ready to crack.' Gorgon struggled to rise, but fresh blood gushed from the awful wound in his chest.

'I cannot feel my legs. Am I dying?'

'Yes,' whispered Parmenion.

Gorgon smiled. 'Curious. . there is no pain. Will you promise me that my people will have their chance at the Gateway?'

'Of course.'

'Your friendship. . carries… a high price. But. .' The Forest Lord's head lolled back and his body began to tremble. The skin of his face seemed to shimmer, the snakes receded. Parmenion remained where he was as the body slowly changed, becoming at the point of death the handsome dark-haired man Gorgon had once been in life.

Weary and full of sorrow, Parmenion rose.

Brontes stumbled forward, kneeling by his brother. 'Why?' he shouted. 'Why did you do this?' Taking hold of Gorgon's shoulders, he began to shake the body.

'He cannot hear you,' said Parmenion softly.

The minotaur looked up, his huge brown eyes streaming with tears. 'Tell me, Parmenion, why he came?'

'For friendship,' answered the Spartan simply.

'He did not understand the meaning of the word.'

'I think that he did. Why else would he and his people have risked their lives? They had nothing to gain here.'

'But. . my own people refused to help you. And yet this. . creature. . died for you. I do not understand.' Lifting his horned head, the minotaur screamed his torment to the skies.

The laughter of Philippos pealed out. That's it!' he called, 'Wail, you pitiful monstrosity. I killed him. Release me and I'll kill you. I'll kill all of you!'

Brontes lurched to his feet, gathering up his axe. Philippos laughed again. The axe-blade hammered into the King's face, but the skin was not even marked.

Helm stepped forward, approaching Parmenion. 'Let him loose,' said the warrior. The Spartan turned to Helm. The voice was no longer metallic, the helmet now separated from the skin.

'Your memory has returned?' Parmenion asked him, knowing the answer.

'It has. Let him loose. I will fight him.'

'He cannot be killed.'

'We shall see.'

'Wait!' whispered Parmenion. Swiftly he unclasped the necklet, stepping forward to fasten it around Helm's neck.

'Now he will not be able to read your mind.' The warrior nodded and moved away from the Spartan, drawing his sword. Brontes looked to Parmenion. 'Release him.' Brontes slashed the axe-blade through the bindings. Philippos staggered, then righted himself and swung to see Helm approaching him with sword extended.