Dark Prince by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page A

Emathian plain. The boy, as all men knew, was possessed, and Parmenion remembered with both fear and pride the battle for the child’s soul in the valley of Hades five years before.
    It was a time of miracles. Parmenion, dying of a cancer in the brain, had fallen into a coma—only to open his eyes to a world of nightmare, gray, soulless, twisted, and barren. Here he had been met by the
magus
Aristotle and, together with the dead sorceress Tamis, had tried to save the soul of the unborn Alexander.
    Conceived on the mystic isle of Samothrace, the child was intended to be the human vessel of the Dark God, Kadmilos,destined to bring chaos and terror to the world. A small victory had been won in the Valley of the Damned. The child’s soul had not been destroyed by the evil but had merged with it, light and dark in a constant war.
    Poor Alexander, thought Parmenion. A brilliant child, beautiful and sensitive, yet host to the spirit of chaos.
    “Will you be my general, Parmenion?”
    Parmenion had longed to say, “Yes, my prince, I will lead your armies across the world.”
    But what if the Dark God won? What if the prince of beauty became the prince of demons?
    The bay gelding crested the last hill before the estate, and Parmenion drew rein and sat, staring down at his home. The white stone of the great house shone in the sunlight, the groves of cypress trees around it standing like sentries. Away to the left lay the smaller houses of the servants and farm workers, and to the right, the stables, paddocks, and pastures to house Parmenion’s growing herd of war-horses.
    The general shaded his eyes, scanning the grounds of the great house. There was Phaedra, sitting by the fountain with Philo and Nicci beside her, little Hector in her arms. Parmenion’s heart sank. Swinging his horse to the east, he rode down onto the plain, skirting the great house and angling toward the stable buildings.
    Mothac sat in the hay, stroking the mare’s long neck, whispering words of comfort. She grunted and struggled to stand. Mothac rose with her.
    “No movement yet,” said his assistant, Croni, a wiry Thessalian who stood at the rear, waiting to assist the birth of the foal.
    “Good girl,” Mothac whispered to the mare. “You’ll do right. This is not the first, eh, Larina? Three fine stallions you have borne.” Stroking the mare’s face and neck, he ran his hands along her back and moved alongside the Thessalian.
    The mare had been in labor now for several hours and was weary to the point of exhaustion. The old Theban knew itwas unusual for a birth to be so delayed. Most mares foaled swiftly with few problems.
    Always in the past Larina had delivered with speed, her foals strong. But this time they had covered her with the Thracian stallion, Titan, a huge beast of more than seventeen hands.
    The mare grunted once more and lay down. Pushing Croni aside, Mothac gently eased his hand inside her, his fingers feeling for the water sac.
    “Be careful, master,” whispered the Thessalian. Mothac grunted and swore at the man, who chuckled and shook his head.
    “Yes! It’s coming. I can feel the feet.”
    “Front or back?” asked Croni nervously. A breech birth, both men knew, would probably see the foal born dead.
    “I can’t tell. But it’s moving. Wait! I can feel the head. By Zeus, it’s big.” Easing his hand back, Mothac stood and stretched. For the last two years his spine had been steadily stiffening, his shoulders becoming arthritic and painful. “Fetch some grease, Croni. I fear the foal is tearing her apart.”
    The Thessalian ran back to the main house, reappearing minutes later with a tub of animal fat, mostly used for the painting of hooves, to prevent sand cracks and splitting. Mothac took the tub and smelt it.
    “This is no good,” he grunted. “It’s almost rancid. Get some olive oil—and be quick about it!”
    “Yes, master.”
    He returned with a large jug in which Mothac dipped his hands, smearing the oil