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 Parmenion, 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.'