Dark Prince by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page B

inside the mare, around the head and hooves of the foal. The mare strained once more, and the fetal sac moved closer.
    “That’s it, Larina, my pet,” said Mothac. “A little more now.”
    The two men waited beside the mare for some time before the sac appeared, pale and semitranslucent. The foal’s front legs could just be seen within the membrane.
    “Shall I help her, master?” Croni asked.
    “Not yet. Give her time; she’s an old hand at this by now.”
    The mare grunted, and the sac moved farther into view—then stopped. Bright blood spouted over the membrane, dripping to the hay. The mare was sweating freely now and was in some distress as Mothac moved to the rear and gently took hold of the foal’s front legs, easing them toward him. At any time now the membranes would burst, and it was vital the foal’s head be clear; otherwise it would suffocate. Mothac pulled gently while the Thessalian moved to the mare’s head, talking to her, his voice low, coaxing and soft.
    With a convulsive surge the sac came clear, dropping to the hay. Mothac peeled away the membranes from around the foal’s mouth and nostrils, wiping the body with fresh hay. The newborn was a jet-black male, the image of its sire down to the white starburst on its brow. It lifted its head and shivered violently.
    “Aya!” exulted Croni. “You have a son, Larina! A horse for a king! And such a size! Never have I seen a bigger foal.”
    Within minutes the foal tried to stand, and Mothac helped it to its feet, guiding it toward the mare. Larina, though exhausted, also rose, and after several unsuccessful attempts the newborn found the teat and began to feed.
    Mothac patted the mare and walked out into the sunshine, washing his hands and arms in a bucket of water. The sun was high, and he picked up his felt hat, covering the sensitive skin of his bald head.
    He was tired, but he felt at peace with the world. Foaling always brought this feeling—the beauty of birth, the onward movement of life.
    Croni moved alongside him. “There is great loss of blood, master. The mare may die.”
    Mothac looked down at the little man, noting his concern. “Stay with her. If she is still bleeding in two hours, come and find me. I shall be in the western pasture.”
    “Yes, master,” answered Croni. The Thessalian gazed up at the hills. “Look, master, the lord is home once more.”
    Glancing up, Mothac saw the rider. He was still too far away to be recognized by the old Theban, but the horse was Parmenion’ssecond mount, a spirited bay gelding with a white face.
    Mothac sighed and shook his head. You should have gone home first, Parmenion, he thought sadly.
    “Another victory for the Lion of Macedon,” said Mothac, pouring Parmenion a goblet of wine.
    “Yes,” answered the general, stretching his lean frame out on the couch. “How goes it here?”
    “With the horses? Twenty-six foals. The last is a beauty. Larina’s, the son of the Thracian stallion. Pure black he is, Parmenion, and what a size! Would you like to see him?”
    “Not now, my friend. I am tired.”
    The thickset Theban sat opposite his friend, filling his own goblet and sipping the contents. “Why did you not go home?”
    “I shall. I wanted first to see how the farm fared.”
    “I have to clear enough horse dung all day,” snapped Mothac. “Don’t bring it into my house.”
    Parmenion loosened the thongs of his riding boots, pulling them clear. “So tetchy, my friend! Maybe it is for the joy of your company. What difference does it make, Mothac? These are my estates, and I go where I will. I am tired. Do you object, then, to my staying the night?”
    “You know that I do not. But you have a wife and family waiting for you—and beds far more comfortable than any that I can offer.”
    “Comfort, I find, is more to do with the spirit than the softness of beds,” said the Spartan. “I am comfortable here. You are getting more irritable these days, Mothac. What is wrong with