He approached it warily, eyes scanning the graveyard around it.
The helm was beautifully crafted, save that it had no plume or crest. The skull was clear, showing no sign of the armourer’s hammer, nor a single rivet. The face-guard had been shaped into the features of a man, bearded and stern of eye, with high curved brows and a mouth set in a terrible smile. The breastplate was also of superb design, the shoulders padded with bronze-reinforced leather, the chest fashioned in the shape of a strong man’s musculature, curving pectorals and well-developed muscles at the solar plexus. Beneath it was a kilt of leather strips edged with bronze, and below that a pair of doeskin riding boots.
Beside them lay a scabbarded sword. Helm reached down and drew the weapon. His heartbeat slowed, confidence returning. The blade was of polished iron, double-edged and keen, the balance perfect.
The armour is mine, he realized. It has to be.
Swiftly he dressed. The breastplate was a perfect fit, as were the boots. The kilt sat well on his waist, the sword scabbard sliding easily into a loop of bronze at his left hip. Lastly he lifted the helm, easing it down over his short-cropped hair. As it settled into place a searing pain flowed over his features, burning like fire. He screamed and tried to pull the helm loose, but molten metal ate into his skin, pouring into his nostrils and mouth and anchoring itself to the bones of his face.
The pain passed.
Opening his eyes he saw that he had fallen to his knees. He rose and tried once more to remove the helm, but it would not budge. The breeze whispered across the graveyard - and he felt it upon his face, even as he had felt his hands when they tried to remove the helm. Lifting his right hand, he touched the metal mouth. It was cold, yet yielding. His finger probed further, touching his tongue; this too was metallic and yet still soft.
His face was now bronze; the helm was more than joined to his skin, it had become part of him.
‘What is happening to me?’ he bellowed, his own voice strange in his ears.
‘Nothing is happening,’ replied a soft voice. ‘You are merely preparing yourself for the task ahead.’
Helm swung, his sword flashing into his hand. But there was no one in sight. ‘Where are you?’
‘Close by,’ came the voice. ‘Do not be alarmed, I am a friend.’
‘Show yourself, friend.’
‘That is not necessary. You are in the hills of Arcadia. Your quest lies to the north, at the Gulf of Korinthos.’
‘I am not your slave!’ stormed the warrior.
‘You do not know what you are, all you know is the name I gave you.’ The voice pointed out, the tone equable, even friendly. ‘But all your answers lie ahead. You must seek out the Golden Child.’
‘And if I don’t?’
There was no reply. ‘Are you still there? Speak to me, curse you!’
But the graveyard was silent.
Attalus sat back, resting his shoulders against a boulder and surveying his companions. Brontes was sitting opposite, his great brown eyes staring into the fire. Beside him the lion-headed Arges was stretched out, his maned head resting on his hugely muscled arm, his tawny eyes watching Attalus. The cyclops, Steropes, was asleep, breath hissing through his fangs. Attalus transferred his gaze to the cliff path where a single centaur watched for signs of the Makedones. Beside him Alexander stirred, moaning in his sleep. Attalus glanced back at Arges; still the creature watched him.
‘Do you have to lie there and stare?’ Attalus asked. The lion’s mouth opened, a low growl issuing forth.
Brontes looked up from the fire. ‘He does not like you,’ he said.
‘I’ll lose no sleep over that,’ retorted Attalus.
‘From where does your anger come, Human?’ queried Brontes. ‘I feel it in you - a bitterness, a frustration perhaps?’
‘Leave me in peace,’ snapped Attalus. ‘And make sure your hairy brother keeps his distance, or he’s likely to wake up with a length of Macedonian steel in his heart.’ And he stretched out on the ground, turning his back on the brothers.
Bitterness? Oh yes, Attalus knew where the seeds had been planted for that. It had been on the day when his father killed his mother. The death had not been easy and the boy had listened to her screams for hours. He had been young then, merely twelve, but after that day he had never been young again. At fourteen he had crept into his father’s bedchamber with a razor-sharp skinning knife, running the blade expertly across the man’s throat and standing back to watch the sleeping man wake with blood bubbling into his lungs. Oh, he had thrashed his arms, struggling to rise, his fingers scrabbling at his throat as if to bind the slashed arteries. Bitterness? What could these creatures know of his bitterness?
Unable to sleep, Attalus rose and walked from the camp. The moon was high, the night breeze chill. He shivered and glanced up at the cliff path. The centaur was nowhere in sight. Uneasy now the swordsman scanned the high rocks, seeking any sign of movement.
There was nothing, save the breeze rustling the dry grass on the sides of the cliff. Swiftly he returned to the circle of boulders where the three brothers were asleep. Lightly he tapped Brontes on the shoulder. The minotaur groaned and raised his massive head. ‘What is it?’
‘The sentry is gone. Wake your brothers!’ whispered Attalus. Moving to Alexander he lifted the boy to his shoulder and set off for the forest. As he reached open ground there came the sound of screams from the north. Several ponies ran from the rocks, but spears and arrows sliced into them. A young man riding a pale pony almost got clear, but a Vore swooped down from the night sky, a dart thudding into the pony’s neck. The beast went down, throwing the boy clear. He rose, staggered, and fell as a second dart lanced his body.
Attalus started to run. Alexander woke, but he did not scream or shout. His arms moved around Attalus’ neck and he held on tightly.
From behind came the sound of a galloping horse and Attalus swung, dragging his sword clear. A huge centaur carrying a curved bow ran towards them.
‘Camiron!’ shouted Alexander. The centaur slowed.
‘Many Makedones,’ he said. ‘Too many to kill. The centaurs are dead.’
Sheathing his sword, Attalus took hold of Camiron’s mane and leapt to his back. ‘Make for the trees!’ he commanded. Camiron surged forward, almost unseating the Macedonian, but then they were away. Dark-cloaked warriors were closing in from the south, north and east. But the way west, to the forest, was still clear. Camiron thundered across the open ground as arrows slashed the air around him.
A Vore swooped down from the sky and Camiron swerved and reared as a dart sliced in to the ground beside him. Notching an arrow to his bow the centaur sent a shaft winging through the air, taking the Vore in the right side and piercing its lung. The creature’s wings folded and it crashed to the earth.
Camiron broke into a gallop and headed for the trees, leaving the Makedones far behind. The forest closed around them but still Camiron ran, leaping fallen trees and boulders, splashing across streams, until he crested a hill that led on to a small hollow circled by tall pines. Here he slowed.
‘This place no good. This is Gorgon’s Forest.’
Attalus lifted his leg and slid to the ground. ‘It’s safer than where we were,’ he said, releasing Alexander. The boy sank to the earth, his hands clasped to his temples.
‘Are you ill?’ Attalus asked, dropping to his knees beside the boy. Alexander looked up and the swordsman found himself staring into yellow eyes, the pupils slitted.
‘I am well,’ came a deep voice. Attalus recoiled and Alexander laughed, the sound hollow and cruel.
‘Do not fear me, assassin. You have always served me well.’
Attalus said nothing. At Alexander’s temples dark skin erupted, flowing, swelling, curling back over his ears and down to his neck, forming into twin ram’s horns, ebony-dark and gleaming in the moonlight.
‘I like this place,’ said the Chaos Spirit. ‘It suits me.’
‘Death to your enemies, sire,’ said Pa
rmenion, bowing low.
‘You are an enemy,’ hissed Gorgon. The Spartan straightened and smiled, looking into the pale eyes of the monstrosity before him.
‘Indeed I am - for I am Human. But I have the capacity to give you all that you desire.’
‘You can have no understanding of what I desire. But speak on, for you amuse me - as your imminent death will amuse me.’
‘Long ago you were a warrior,’ said Parmenion softly, ‘a child of the Titans. You had the ability to change your shape, to fly, or to swim below the sea. But when the Great War ended you were banished here, trapped in the last form you chose. Now the Enchantment is dying, all over the world. But you will survive, Gorgon; you know that. You will live for a thousand years, here in this place of dark magic. But one day even this forest will fall to the axes of men.’
Gorgon surged to his feet, the snakes of his hair hissing and thrashing. ‘You came here to tell me what I already know? You are no longer amusing, Human.’
‘I came to offer the answer to your dreams,’ Parmenion told him.
‘And what is my dream?’
‘Be careful, Parmenion,’ came the voice of Thena in his mind. ‘I cannot read him.’
‘You have many dreams,’ said Parmenion. ‘You dream of revenge, you nurse your hatreds. But the one dream, the one great dream, is to see the Enchantment restored, to be free of Man.’
Gorgon sank back on to the throne of skulls. ‘And this you can give me?’ he asked, his cavernous mouth stretching into an obscene smile.
‘Iskander can bring the dream to life.’
For a moment the King was silent, then he leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering. ‘You speak of the child Philippos seeks. He has offered much for this child - many women, not plain like the one with you, but beautiful, soft and sweet. He promises to accept my sovereignty over the forest. I think his is the offer I will accept.’
‘Why does he want the child so desperately?’ countered Parmenion.
‘For immortality.’
‘An immortal Human? Is that to be desired? And what else?’
‘What else is there?’
The death of Enchantment. Without Iskander you have no hope. You will all wither and die. That is the ultimate aim of Philippos - it has to be.‘
‘And the child is Iskander?’
‘He is,’ Parmenion replied.
‘And he can lift the curse from me and my people?’
‘He can.’
‘I do not believe it. Now it is time to die, Human.’
‘Is this all that you want?’ asked Parmenion, his arm sweeping out to encompass the clearing, ‘or have you lived so long as a monstrosity that you can no longer remember what it was like to live as a god? I pity you.’
‘Save your pity!’ thundered the King. ‘Save it for yourself and the bony woman beside you!’
‘What was your name?’ asked Thena suddenly, her voice clear and sweet.
‘My name? I am Gorgon.’
‘What was your name before, in the bright golden days?’
‘I... I... what has this to do with anything?’
‘Can you not remember?’ she asked, moving forward to stand before him.
‘I remember,’ he answered. ‘I was Dionius.’ The King sagged back on the throne, the taut muscles of his shoulders relaxing. ‘I will think more on what you say. You and your man may stay with us tonight; you will be safe while I consider your words.’
Thena bowed and walked to Parmenion, leading him away to the edge of the clearing.
‘What was that about his name?’ asked the Spartan.
‘His mind was too powerful to read, but one image kept flickering in his thoughts when you spoke of the return of the Enchantment. It was of a handsome man with clear blue eyes. I guessed it must be him.’
‘You are a good companion to have,’ he told her, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘Wise and intuitive.’
‘And bony and plain,’ she replied, with a smile.
‘Not at all,’ he whispered. ‘You are beautiful.’
Snatching her hand from his, she pulled back. ‘Do not mock me, Spartan.’
‘I spoke only the truth. Beauty is more than skin, flesh and bone. You have courage and spirit. And, if you doubt my words, then read my mind.’
‘No. I know what is there.’
‘Then why are you angry?’
‘I had a lover long ago,’ she said, turning away from him. ‘He was young, as was I. We did not have long together, and I have missed him for many years.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was taken from him, across the sea, and held captive in a temple until I agreed to become a priestess.’
‘And he made no attempt to find you? His love could not have been as great as yours.’
‘He thought me dead.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Parmenion, taking her hand once more. ‘I know the scars you carry; I have them too.’
‘But you are married now, with three children. Surely you have forgotten your first love?’
‘Never,’ he replied, his voice so soft the word was barely a sigh.
The Forest of Gorgon
For much of the night the creatures of the forest sat around the campfires. There was no laughter or song and they huddled together in grim silence as Gorgon sat upon the throne of skulls. Thena was asleep, her head resting on Parmenion’s shoulder, but the Spartan stayed awake. The silence was unnatural; he sensed the creatures were waiting for something and he remained tense and watchful as the hours passed.
Towards dawn the creatures climbed to their feet, moving to left and right of the throne in two lines. Easing Thena to the ground, Parmenion rose. His limbs were stiff and he stretched the muscles of his back. Tension hung in the air as Gorgon rose from the throne and stared to the east.
A dozen weird beasts emerged from the trees, dragging a prisoner, roped and tied. There was blood upon the prisoner’s body and the marks of many wounds. Parmenion cursed softly.
The prisoner was Brontes.
His captors - part-reptile, part-cat, their limbs covered in fur, their faces scaled - pulled Brontes between the waiting lines. Jagged knives and swords hissed into the air.
‘Wait!’ called Parmenion, striding out to stand above the bound minotaur. Brontes looked up at him, his expression unreadable. Swiftly Parmenion drew his dagger, slicing the razor-sharp blade through the thongs binding him. ‘Stay down,’ ordered the Spartan, then rose to face the Forest King.
‘This is my friend - and my ally,’ he said. ‘He is under my protection.’
‘Your protection? And who protects you, Human?’
‘You do, sire - until you have reached a decision.’
‘So,’ hissed Gorgon, pacing forward to stand over the minotaur, ‘you have a human friend now, Brontes. Do you remember the last one? You don’t learn, do you?’
The minotaur said nothing but he lowered his head, avoiding Gorgon’s gaze. Then a sound came from the Forest King that could have been laughter. ‘He was a prisoner on Greta,’ he told Parmenion. ‘The King penned him in a labyrinth below his city, feeding him on the entrails of pigs and other vile meats. One day the King threw a hero into the labyrinth. But Brontes did not kill him, did you, brother? No, he befriended him and together they escaped. Imagine Brontes’ surprise when the hero returned home to brag of his battle with the deadly, man-eating minotaur. Did he become King, Brontes? Yes, I believe that he did. And spent his days - as all kings do - hunting down the people of the Enchantment. Thus do they build their legends.’
‘Kill me,’ said Brontes, ‘but pray do not bore me to death.’
‘Ah, but how can I kill you, Brontes? You are under the protection of the Human. How fortunate for you.’ Suddenly Gorgon’s foot lashed out, cracking against Brontes’ jaw and hurling him to the ground.
‘How many enemies do you need, sire?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Do not try my patience, Human! This is my realm.’
‘I do
not question that, sire. But when the Enchantment is restored, it will be restored for all the children of the Titans. All... including my friend Brontes.’
‘And if I kill him?’
‘Then you will need to kill me. For I will surely strike you down.’
Gorgon shook his head, the snakes convulsively rising, then he knelt by Brontes. ‘What are we to make of this, brother?’ he asked. ‘A Human is prepared to die for you. How far have we fallen that we should earn their pity?’ Glancing up at Parmenion he shook his head once more. ‘You will have my answer come the dawn. Enjoy the moments before then.’
Parmenion moved to Brontes, helping the minotaur to his feet. His chest and back showed a score of shallow cuts and he was bleeding freely.
‘What happened?’ asked Parmenion as he led the minotaur back to where Thena slept.
‘The Makedones surprised us. The centaurs are dead - as are my brothers. I managed to reach the forest, but there I was captured. All is lost, Parmenion.’
‘What of the boy!’
‘Your friend carried him clear - but I don’t know if they escaped.’
‘I am sorry for your brothers, my friend. I should have led us all into the forest and taken the chance.’
‘Do not blame yourself, strategos. And I thank you for speaking for me. Sadly it will delay our deaths only a little while. Gorgon is playing with us, allowing hope to build. At dawn we will see his true evil.’
‘He called you brother.’