Gifts of the Gods Pythia

 "Don't go too far, Timeon!"

The call drifted out from under the eaves of the house; the woman sounded harassed and it carried a note of anxious impatience. The boy - a child no more than seven summers old - sighed.

"No, mother."

"And stay away from Butterhorn. You know she gets testy when she's in calf."

"Yes, mother."

He sighed a second time and picked up his pace before his mother could think of any other strictures to lay over him. His bag bumped at his hip, and he put down a hand to steady it; he reached out with the other one as he passed the wood pile and snatched up a slender length of wood, his imagination immediately converting it into a sword.

Timeon hacked and slashed at unseen foes as he bounded down the hill and out into the fields at the back of his house. The morning sun was bright and painted a layer of soft gold across the countryside. The wind, which had been tossing through the treetops all week, had finally died back to a gentle zephyr that barely rippled the summer leaves. It was going to be a warm day.

The goats that were idly grazing in the hedgerows barely glanced up as the boy bounded past. In his mind they were lurking monsters, strange horned beasts which he fought and defeated with a hero's ease. His makeshift sword waved in triumph as he overcame impossible odds; he was Perseus, stalking Medusa, Theseus, hunting Minotaurs in the labyrinths of Crete - and he was Hercules, battling the hydra, the Nemean lion and the flesh eating horses of Diomedes, all at once.

"Hah!" he cried, beating back unthreatening grass stalks as if they were legions of armoured warriors. "Take that. And that." He vanquished imaginary enemies with relish as he headed towards the secluded spot where he liked to play. There were entire armies lurking in his bag; only the day before his uncle's agile hands had added another warrior to the carved and painted band that were his most precious playthings. He hadn't decided who this one was going to be yet. The biggest - of course - was Hercules himself, and he kept company with other men of renown: Ajax, Achilles, Jason and Hector.

He was over halfway to the sparkling stream and the wind bent oak that were his castle and his kingdom when he heard an odd noise, somewhere over in the next field. That was where Butterhorn was currently tethered, the cow having displayed some very antisocial tendencies in recent days. It was also the field that butted up to the edge of the wood; beyond that lay the lake, which, rumour had it, had recently become the lair of some child eating monster. Timeon didn't know of anyone who'd actually been eaten, but he'd vowed - as others in the village his age had vowed - that when he was old enough he was going to hunt the monster down and slay it.

The noise came again; a high pitched, chittering note that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. It accompanied a far more recognisable sound - the unmistakable lowing of a frightened cow.

"Butterhorn!" Timeon raced towards the gap in the hedge, his pretend sword held out in front of him. The cow was the most valuable thing his family possessed, and it would be terrible if something happened to her. He burst through the hedgerow and ran on into the meadow, trying to locate the animal and find out what was going on. The grass was shoulder high since his father was planning on cutting it for hay, and he couldn't immediately see where Butterhorn had been tethered. Her protesting voice was suddenly silenced, cut abruptly short and ending halfway through a mournful bellow. The boy charged on, heading for the source of her cry, too worried about the cow to register the way that that odd, vibrating note had begun to come from somewhere behind him.

Three more hasty steps and he stumbled to a halt, shocked by the sight that awaited him. He stared in startled horror, unable to believe his eyes.

A sweet, cloying smell filled the air.

The grass rustled behind him.

And Timeon was turning, his mouth opening in a terrified scream as something reached out and snatched him off his feet. The makeshift sword fell to the ground and lay there, a pale, peeled length of wood, over which the blood crept like a crimson river …

"You don't have to keep checking on them, you know. They're hardly going to escape, are they?"

The sun was growing warmer as it crept up across the sky. It shone down on the verdant countryside, laying soft shimmers of heat above the dust of the road - and painted the two figures that were following it with a generous gleam of gold.

"You never know."

The smaller of the two men was a compactly built but muscular warrior, the unruly tumble of his hair reflecting the gold of the sunshine. A ragged, vaguely purple jerkin hung from his shoulders, barely covering the gleam of softly bronzed skin, while the rest of his gear - boots, pants and bracers - appeared to consist of a patchwork of weathered leather. He was walking with an energetic step, practically bouncing beside the even long legged stride of his companion so that the long fishing poles which dangled from his right hand jiggled rhythmically in time with each forward pace. His left arm was curled around the pottery jug that he was hugging to his chest; forefinger and thumb had just dextrously uncorked the lid so that he could peer in at the contents.

"You packed the jug yourself," his comrade pointed out, wrestling between exasperation and amusement. "Besides - you keep disturbing them like that, and they'll get stressed out. Develop a sour taste."

The second man was taller. A lot taller. His honey blond hair cascaded around a square cut, sculptured face, and he was built to match his looks, with a pair of broad shoulders sitting above a well muscled frame. Soft gold suede draped his torso, covering a cream coloured sleeveless shirt, while his pants were made up from an intricate interlacing of leather which complimented the ornate gauntlets that hugged his wrists. He too was encumbered; he was hefting a heavy, wooden chest on his right shoulder, although he was carrying it as if it were no weight at all.

"Really?" Blue eyes went wide momentarily - then their owner frowned good naturedly, realising he was being teased. "You don't know that."

"You don't know that they won't."

"Ah. Yeah. Good point." Agile fingers replaced the cork and the man pushed it down with a bob of his chin. "You know," he went on to say happily, "I've never seen anything as sleek and plump as these guys. The fish are gonna go crazy over them."

The taller man laughed. "Maybe," he allowed. "I still can't believe you actually asked for them. Of all the things to ask for …"

"Hey," his comrade retorted, "I didn't ask for anything. All I said was, 'if we want to go fishing after we've made the delivery, then we're going to need some bait.' I didn't expect Demeter to actually supply some." He paused for a moment and then giggled impishly. "That butcher's face was an absolute picture."

"I'm not surprised. That was fresh killed mutton he'd offered up - and there you were, scooping up maggots by the handful."

"Never waste the gifts of the gods." The advice was offered with a decided grin. "Speaking of which - what exactly is so special about a chest full of seed grain, anyway? When Demeter said she'd owed this place - well, a handful of gold would buy three, four times that much, easily."

The man with the box on his shoulder smiled. "Iolaus," he said softly, "this wheat is worth at least a dinar a grain."

"A dinar a - you're kidding me."

"Nope." The speaker took pity on his companion's bewilderment. "It's quite simple, really. This is wheat harvested from Demeter's own fields; it'll yield a crop so rich that one handful will seed an entire field - and this chestful is enough to guarantee a village a bountiful harvest for several years to come."

"Wow. So that's why she wanted us to escort it."

"Probably. This stuff would fetch a high price on the open market. Normally the petitioning village would send a deputation to collect their share, but I gather the priest in the Hebris valley is pretty elderly. And Demeter said something about some other trouble or other she thought might need looking into."

"Trouble," the man named Iolaus assessed thoughtfully. "With a big or little T?"

"She didn't say."

"They never do." He heaved a small sigh, then threw his company a confident grin. "Well," he decided, "it won't be anything you and I can't handle. Besides - who'd pass up an opportunity to go fishing in the best stocked lake in the whole of Mesinia?"

The tall man grinned. "Nobody I know," he allowed, his eyes twinkling with a hint of laughter. They were walking through a narrow gully by now, the road having led them into more thickly wooded area and down the start of an angled slope. Ahead the country opened out again, presenting a panorama of rolling downs spotted with clumps of woodland amidst the angled shapes of worked fields. The gleam of water could be seen in the distance, reflecting the shimmer of the sun, and beyond it the hills rose up to form a purpled backdrop to the rich green land. The smaller man paused for a moment, taking a sideways bounce onto slightly higher ground so that he could get a better look at the view.

"Nice neighbourhood," he assessed. "Peaceful. You know?"

"Yeah," his companion agreed, taking several long strides down the slope. "Let's hope it stays that wayyyyy!" His words ended on a startled note. They were accompanied by a sharp snap somewhere in the undergrowth and a sudden flurry from the fallen leaves underfoot; the tall man was swept up and tumbled forward, engulfed by the hidden net which had been laid across the path. As it sprang upwards, tangling both victim and the burden he carried within its mesh, a bunch of ruffians leapt out of the surrounding bushes, grinning with feral triumph.

"Well, well, well," their leader said, strolling forward to look up at his prisoner, "now, what have we got here?"