Dark Prince

'Why do you cry?' he asked, leaning forward to touch his thumb to Alexander's cheek, brushing away a tear.

'My enemies are coming for me,' said Alexander, struggling to halt the surging panic.

'Where is the outcast who carried you here?'

'He is gone. I am with Chiron now.'

The centaur nodded, his dark eyes thoughtful. 'These enemies you speak of, child — are they men, or of the Enchantment?'

'They have wings and scales. They are not men.'

'Vores,' hissed the centaur. 'Their touch is disease, their breath is the plague. Why does the Demon King seek you?'

'He wants to kill me,' the child answered. 'He wants to live for ever.' The shivering was worse now and sweat bathed his face. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

'Are you Iskander then?' asked the centaur, his voice echoing from a great distance as if whispering across the vaults of Time.

'That is… what they. . called me,' answered Alexander. The world spun and he toppled from the rock to the soft grass. It felt cool against his face, but his chest was burning and a dark mist rolled across his mind. .

* * *

Dropping his bow and arrows Kytin bent his front forelegs and leaned down, lifting the child in his arms. The small boy was burning with fever. The centaur pulled aside the boy's torn tunic, cursing as he saw the marks of talons on the slender torso. Already pus was seeping from the wounds, the flesh around them puckered and unhealthy. Leaving his weapons where they lay Kytin galloped down the mountainside, cutting along a narrow path through the trees and splashing across a shallow stream.

Two other centaurs rode alongside him.

'Why do you have the child?' asked one.

'He is Iskander,' replied Kytin, 'and he is dying!' Without waiting for a response he galloped on, lungs burning with the effort of the sustained pace, breath coming in ragged gasps. On he ran, deep into the heart of the woods. It was almost dusk when he arrived at a village on the banks of a broad river. The homes here, perfectly round and windowless, with huge, gaping doorways, were built of wood and straw. Beyond the scores of buildings were wide pastures and treeless hills, and already there were horses grazing, their bondsmen sitting around fires. Kytin felt the Need upon him. Not yet, he cautioned himself. Hold to the Form. Iskander needs you!

Halting before a roundhouse set apart from the rest, he called out a name. But there was no reply and he stood waiting, knowing she was inside. Yet he would not — indeed could not — disturb her at this time, and felt with sick dread the life of the child ebbing away like water passing through sand.

Finally an ancient pony stepped from the large doorway, tossed its head and trotted towards the hills.

'Gaea,' called the centaur. 'Come forth. I need you.'

An old woman, supporting herself with a staff, hobbled into the doorway. 'I am tired,' she said.

'This is Iskander,' Kytin told her, extending his arms. 'He has been touched by a Vore.'

The old woman's head sank down to rest on the tip of the staff. 'Why now,' she whispered, 'when I am so weak?' For a moment she was silent, then she drew in a deep breath and raised herself to her full height 'Bring him in, Kytin. I will do what I can.'

The centaur eased past her, laying the unconscious boy on a narrow pallet bed. Alexander's lips and eyelids were blue now, and he scarcely seemed to breathe. 'You must save him,' urged Kytin. 'You must!'

'Hush, fool,' she told him, 'and go to your privacy. Your flanks are trembling and the Need is upon you. Go now, before you shame yourself in public.'

Kytin backed away, leaving the old woman sitting on the bed beside the dying child. Taking his hand, she felt the fever raging. 'You should have come to us twenty years ago,' she whispered, 'when my powers were at their height.

Now I am old and near useless. My pony is dying and will not see out the winter. What would you have me do, Iskander — if you are truly Iskander?'

The boy stirred, moaning in delirium. 'Par. . menion!'

'Hush, child,' said Gaea, her voice soothing. Pulling open the tunic she laid a wrinkled, bony hand upon the festering scars. The heat scalded her skin and her mouth tightened. 'That the Enchantment should have sired such creatures.

.' she said, her voice acid and bitter. Her hand began to glow, the bones standing out like dark shadows below the skin as if a lantern was hidden under her palm. Smoke writhed from the boy's chest, flowing through her outstretched fingers, and the wounds sealed, pus oozing to the skin of his chest. The smoke hung in a tight sphere above him, dark and swirling. 'Begone!' hissed the old woman. The sphere exploded and a terrible stench filled the roundhouse.

Alexander groaned, but the colour flowed back to his pale cheeks and he sighed.

Gaea stood, staggered and reached for her staff. An elderly man, stooped and bent, edged his way into the room.

'Does he live?' he asked, his voice thin, whispering through rotted teeth.

'He lives, Kyaris. You brought him in time. How can you be sure he is Iskander?'

The old man moved slowly to a chair by a burning brazier, sitting and holding his hands to the blaze. 'He told me.

And the Tyrant seeks him, Gaea, to kill him and become immortal. Who else can he be?'

'He could be a human child — and that is all. The Tyrant is not infallible; he has been wrong before.'

'Not this time. I can feel it.'

'In your bones, I suppose,' she snapped. 'I swear your horse has more sense than you. The Vores marked him; that means they know where he is. How long before their wings are beating the wind above this wood? Eh? How long?'

'But if he is Iskander we must protect him. He is our hope, Gaea!'

'Hopes! Dreams!' snorted the old woman. 'They are like smoke in the breeze. I once dreamt of Iskander. But no more.

Now I wait for my pony to die, and to leave this world of blood and pain. Look at him! How old is he? Four, five?

You think he will lead us from peril? His mouth still yearns for his mother's tits!'

Kyaris shook his head, his wispy white hair floating like mist against his face. 'Once you had belief. But you are old, and your faith has gone. Well, I too am old, but I still have hopes. Iskander will save us. He will restore the Enchantment. He will!'

'Cling to your nonsense if you will, old man — but tomorrow be ready with bow and spear. For the Vores will come, and after them the Makedones. Your stupidity will see us all destroyed.'

Kyaris struggled to his feet. 'Better to die than to live without hope, Gaea. I have sons, and sons of my sons. I want them to see the return of the Enchantment. I will fight the Vores; they will not take the child.'

'Find a mirror, you old fool,' she taunted him. 'Once the words of Kyaris-Kytin echoed like thunder across the world.

Now you can scarce stand without support. Even Merged you cannot run far.'

'I am sorry for you,' he told her. Moving to the bedside, he laid his hand on the sleeping child's brow. 'Sleep well, Iskander,' he whispered.

'Sell him to Philippos,' she advised. 'That would be true wisdom.'

'There is no wisdom in despair, woman,' he answered.

* * *

Parmenion and Attalus rode from the woods, angling down towards the plain and the distant, shimmering River Peneios. Clouds were bunching in the sky, huge and rolling, promising a storm, but the wind was still warm, the rain holding off. Attalus eased his grey alongside Parmenion.

'Where do we go, strategos?'

'Across the plain and into those woods,' answered the Spartan, pointing to the western hills on which the tree-line curved like the crest of a giant helmet.

The first drops of rain began to fall, then a crack of thunder sounded. Attalus' stallion reared, almost dislodging the Macedonian. Lightning forked across the sky and the deluge began. The horses walked now, heads bowed, the riders drenched and conversation impossible.