It was a lazy day, too lazy to do more than talk, an occupation which the older men of the village pursued with garrulous ease. Not even the children had the energy to play. They sat in the narrow shadows, sprawling beside the equally indolent village dogs, and listening to their elders discourse among themselves.
Not all of them watched the old men. Some had crept, warily, to sit and stare with fascinated eyes at the two strangers who shared the shade of one old olive tree. They seemed unconcerned at having acquired an audience, although the taller of the two had favoured his young audience with a gentle smile once his amused companion had brought their observation to his attention.
Two men. One was a broad shouldered, well built individual with honey brown hair and soft blue gray eyes, his muscled torso draped in a soft cream leather vest above intricately woven leather pants. The other was a more compact figure, a wiry bundle of energy beside his company; his hair was a tumble of sun washed gold and his eyes a deeper blue. Both men were clearly warriors, although there was only one sword propped against the bench they shared; each muscled forearm was encircled by an ornate gauntlet, and both sported the kind of healthy tan that comes from long days spent in the sun.
They were clearly glad to have found some refuge from the noon heat; its searing fingers had stroked a shimmer of sweat across gleaming skin. The larger of the two was nursing a tankard of ale and listening attentively to his companion; the smaller man was well into an animated tale, his hands punctuating his words with quicksilver gestures.
"... and then she said, it would be twenty dinars for the night, fifteen for the evening, and ten for an hour. So the Thracian pays twenty dinars and the dark haired girl takes him away and treats him like a god. The Athenian only has fifteen dinars, so he picks the redhead and has the evening of his life.
"And the Spartan looks in his pouch, counts his coins and asks: ‘How much was it again for the sheep?’"
Hercules groaned at the punchline, throwing the joke teller a pained look. "You get worse," he decided, shaking his head and taking another swallow of ale. "Don’t tell that joke once we get to Laconia. You’ll get lynched."
His partner grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Naah. I’ll just change the characters. How ‘bout I make ‘em a - Trojan, an Arcadian and - " The grin got a little wider. "A Corinthian?"
The son of Zeus shook his head a second time, an expression of patient despair, and Iolaus laughed warmly and with a decidedly impish giggle. "So," he asked, reaching to pick up his own tankard as he did so, "are we gonna take that detour to Dinæ or not?"
"Well," Hercules considered, "I suppose I did promise to visit Dameas’ studio next time I passed this way ... but it’ll be a day’s journey even if we take the short route that cuts over the lower spar of the mountain. And three if we follow the road."
"The short route ..." Iolaus echoed warily. "Through the haunted forest?"
Steel blue eyes twinkled with quiet amusement. "It’s hardly haunted," their owner noted. "Although it does have a reputation for being wild. I wouldn’t have thought that would bother a seasoned hunter like you."
The remark earned him a skeptical frown that said oh come on ... "Hey," came the protest, "I like wild country. But I know the tale. There’s some old sorcerer buried somewhere up there, right? And they say that the souls of all the men he enslaved and murdered are still roaming around, just waiting for him to dig himself free."
"He’s right, you know." One of the serving girls had paused by their table to drop down another jug of ale and collect the empty one. "My grandfather told me that Periphas lured thirty warriors to their doom before he was tricked into his own catacombs and buried alive. He used to boast that his sacrifices to Hera had made him so powerful that he could defy Hades and live forever. He’s deep in Tarterus now, the gods curse his soul. But they say you can sometimes hear his lamentations echoing across the mountain - along with the dying screams of all his victims."
Iolaus affected a small shudder and took a deep swallow of his ale. "Sounds gruesome," he observed. "Let’s not go and say we did."
Hercules chuckled at his reaction. "Periphas has been dead and buried two hundred years or more." He thanked the woman with a charming smile, and she dimpled and hurried away, her cheeks blushing. "Besides," he went on, "the tomb’s supposed to be up near the peak of the mountain, the other side of Dinae. I hardly think his ghost is going to be bothering us, even if it is still around."
"Mmm," Iolaus noted, still a little skeptical. "I don’t like the words sacrifice, power and Hera all in one sentence. You may have kicked her butt into the Abyss, but - someday soon she’s gonna find a way to crawl out of it, madder than ever. You really want to risk it?"
"It’s ancient history," Hercules reiterated, his eyes amused at his friend’s misgivings. "Nothing to do with us. Anyway, I did promise Dameas, so - "
"Okay, okay," the hunter acquiesced with a laugh. "We’ll go to Dinæ. At least it’ll be cooler up on the mountain."
"That’s true." The son of Zeus refilled his tankard, then offered the jug to his partner, who did the same. It was far too early in the year for such excessive heat, even if they were heading south. It was still only late spring, and the lack of cooling breezes was disturbing. He hoped that southern Greece wasn’t destined for a drought that year.
"Nine." One of the old men at the next table announced suddenly, the sound of his voice reaching them with clarity. "There are nine muses. Right?"
"Right." His companions agreed, clearly pleased with this clarification. One of them leaned forward and began ticking off items against his fingers.
"Three Graces."
The group confirmed this with nods and smiles.
"Three Furies." More nods. Hercules watched them with amusement. He’d heard others play this game, enumerating the powers of Heaven as if, by doing so, they gained some understanding of the world. "Three Fates. Seven Pleiades. And - uh - anyone know how many Hounds Artemis has?"
Iolaus was halfway through a mouthful of ale when the question came. He snorted, swallowed the wrong way and started to choke, coughing and hacking in search of air. Hercules grinned, leaning over to amiably slap his friend between the shoulder blades.
"It’s six, isn’t it?" The old men were discussing the question. Iolaus was going an interesting shade of purple - one that matched the patches on his vest. A broad hand applied another well-intentioned slap.
"I thought it was only five."
"Six," someone insisted.
"Seven," Hercules called across helpfully. His partner glared at him, gasping for breath and shaking both his head and his hand to dissuade the assistance. His right hand. The silver mark that it carried flashed briefly as it turned to meet the sun.
"Seven what?" the response came back. The son of Zeus smiled.
"Hounds of Artemis. There are seven of them."
"You sure, Hercules?"
Iolaus had finally managed to draw a decent breath, but his chest was still heaving and he looked a little flushed. He was also looking daggers at his friend, whose smile widened into a grin.
"I’m sure." Hercules lowered his voice and asked solicitously; "Feeling better?"
The hunter - who happened to have recently become the seventh hound of Artemis - glared at him. "No. Yes. You didn’t have to help."
"You or them?" The glare collapsed into a affectionate scowl, prelude to some remark or other.
At which point the earthquake hit.
Suddenly.
Without warning.
The ground jerked sharply, as if some giant hand had seized it. The tables shook. Jugs and tankards vibrated across their wooden surfaces and onto the ground. Hercules was thrown from his seat. Iolaus grabbed for the table to steady himself.
Somewhere behind them both, a faint creaking noise echoed above the persistent rumble of the ground. Someone shouted a warning.
Someone else screamed.
And then the olive tree was pitching forward, its plunging weight shattering the table and the bench beneath, its branches striking home right where the two men had been sitting ...
The depths of the tomb had been filled with silence for many years. Dust lay over every surface, dust and cobwebs in which long dead spiders sat with angular stillness. They sat in the decorations they had woven over the carved surfaces, they sat in the fragile veils that cloaked each archway and niche - and they sat in the empty sockets of skulls that stared out at nothing at all. The remains of thirty warriors slumped in the dust, their armour dulled by time, their leather trappings - like their flesh - long since rotted away. Some wore close fitting helms, some grasped spears, some clung to rusted sword hilts, but all shared the grinning rictus of death, maintaining their eternal honour guard with the patience of the damned.
The hall they guarded was vast, a cavern carved from ancient stone, deep in the roots of the mountain. It was lined with carved slabs of obsidian and paved with black marble. Twisted pillars supported its vaulted roof, an avenue of disquieting images that led to a wide dais and the throne that dominated it.
The throne supported what looked like the corpse of a man, withered skin clinging to the emaciated lines of its face while the once rich and ornate robes it wore had long since been reduced to rotting rags. A carved staff lay across its knees, clutched by gnarled fingers; a narrow band of gold encircled a wizened forehead - and in what should have been sunken sockets a sullen fire still gleamed, a flicker of unearthly life sustained by an evil will.
All was stillness.
All was silence.
Until the ground began to shudder, shaking down years of dust like a fine mist in the bitter air. Barely a quiver at first - then deeper and stronger, tipping over balanced spears and lifting the sprawled corpses in a macabre dance. The hall shook. The pillars shuddered. A crack began to ease open in front of the dais, allowing little spurts of foul air to escape into the ancient chamber.
Then - with a wrench that toppled two of the pillars and sent one of the ornate slabs crashing to the marbled floor - the mountain moved, tearing the crack wide and unleashing a lurid light from its depths. Screaming and howling shadowy shapes streamed from the abyss, a chorus of twisting and writhing phantoms that danced and contorted around the wizened figure on the throne. He moved with sudden effort, a jerk of twisted fingers that lifted from the ornate staff and reached with imperious command.
The shadows screamed away, a howl of anguish and triumph. They ricocheted around the vastness, striking the stubs of long dead torches into malignant life until, one by one, they impacted into the sprawl of bones - and one by one those long dead warriors rose to their feet, turning towards their master with a flare of baleful fire settling in the depths of their empty eyes.
The lurid light died away, leaving only the fitful flicker of unnatural flame to illuminate the shadowed hall. In its sinister glow the cadaverous figure climbed slowly to its feet, a determined effort that brought it to stand defiantly upright. The staff thumped down on cold stone and a shiver of power sparked along its length, surging into the jeweled apex and filling it with crackling energy - the same energy that flared up behind the throne, outlining the carved shapes that lay in the darkness with shimmering clarity.
The shapes of peacock feathers.
Periphas the sorcerer, priest of Hera, drinker of souls and wielder of the staff of night, stared out into the tomb that had been his exile for over two centuries. The army he had created, the skeletal horrors that marched only to his command, leaned forward with expectant eagerness.
An evil smile twisted onto the withered face.
"Whatdya know, fellas," he hissed, with sibilant delight. "I’m baack"
And - drifting up from the bottomless depths - the laughter of the queen of heaven rang round him in a triumphant echo of his own ...
The dust settled slowly, sifting down across every surface, cloaking the world in a soft shroud. It fell into a dazed silence, the impact of the quake leaving a stunned world behind it. Hercules picked himself up cautiously, climbing to his hands and knees and half expecting the earth beneath them to move again. It didn’t, so he straightened up and took an anxious look around.
The children who’d been gathered close by were also climbing to their feet, some of them running with frightened steps into the arms of relieved mothers and fathers. The others looked dazed but otherwise unhurt, so he continued his sweep of the area, concerned that he might be needed for more urgent work than simply comforting children. Part of the tavern roof had slid away, but only to land as a heap of scattered thatching. People were rising to their feet all around him, providing a background of murmured voices, but there were no cries of distress or sounds of lamentations. It appeared that Thiras had escaped fairly lightly from what had been a major shock, and - for once - his strength would not be needed to aid its victims.
He completed his inspection by turning his head to share his relief at that with his partner - and his heart skipped a beat as he focused on the damage that met his eyes. The olive tree lay sprawled across the wreckage of their table, its gnarled branches piercing the wood like distorted javelins. The bench they had been sitting on was little more than splinters - and a dark stain pooled out from under the angled trunk, a moistened patch of earth surrounded by sun baked soil.
"Iolaus?" the hero mouthed, horror seizing his soul. There was a moment in which he couldn’t move, held by the vision of the twisted branches and the shattered table beneath them - and then a hand appeared, scrabbling at the sun bleached bark for a hold, and a familiar figure dragged himself up from behind the fallen olive tree to drape his weight on its trunk.
"Phew," the wiry hunter breathed, looking more than a little dazed. "Herc - next time one of your relatives decides to throw the world at me, give me a little warning, will ya?"
"If I’d had it, you’d have got it," Hercules assured him with relief, getting to his feet and stepping close enough to satisfy himself that the man really had survived unscathed. The stain on the earth was ale, not blood - there was a tiny smudge of that on his friend’s left cheek, but hardly enough to worry about. "You okay?"
Iolaus flashed him a reassuring smile, straightening himself up and easing the kinks out of his shoulders. "I think so. That was close," he added, finally getting a good look at the damage the tree had wrought. "You okay?"
Hercules nodded, stepping back so that his partner could vault over the twisted trunk. "There doesn’t seem to be much damage in the village." He lifted his head to stare at the shape of the mountain that rose in the east. "I think it was centered up there somewhere." His expression dropped into anxious lines. Up there was a stone built city where a quake like that could have caused major damage. "Dinæ could have been hit hard … "
His fellow warrior threw him a look - one that held both shrewd consideration and more than a hint of a resigned smile. A knowing shake of golden locks was followed by a dipped hand, the recovery of a sheathed sword and the shouldering of a battered pack - all in the space of time it took for the son of Zeus to complete his deliberations and turn, ready to present his case.
"If we leave now," Iolaus observed, forestalling any further discussion on the matter, "we have a good chance of getting there by this evening."
Hercules had opened his mouth to speak; he closed his lips into a quiet smile of thanks and reached to clasp his friend’s shoulder with a grateful hand instead. It earned him one of those half embarrassed grimaces and a friendly jab in the ribs - followed by an encouraging jerk of a blond head in the relevant direction.
A whole conversation in a couple of glances. One that went -
Thanks - for understanding me - and for supporting what I need to do. I know it’s hot. I know it’s a long way - but there are people out there that need my help. You don’t have to come, but I’ll be glad if you do ...
The answer delivered with mild chagrin because the man genuinely believed the thanks to be unnecessary. Even if he was grateful to get them.
Aw, come on, Herc. That’s what I’m here for.
And then the jest, the amused flash of spirit that turned the acceptance of duty into the challenge of adventure.
So let’s get going before I change my mind ...
Which was exactly what they did, having first made sure that the people of Thiras were not going to need their assistance. The villagers bade them farewell with good grace, only asking for messages to be conveyed to friends and relatives in the city and pressing bread, meat and a full wineskin on them for their journey. Several of the children raced to the village outskirts to wave them on their way, an escort of excited faces and exuberant dogs. Hercules and an earthquake. All in one day.
A day they would probably remember for the rest of their lives.
The two heroes left them behind, setting out for their destination at a warrior’s pace, adopting the kind of stride that covered ground without making early demands on energy. They had a long way to go, and most of that over wild ground.
They did not see one of the larger dogs break away from the village pack and trot after them. Nor did they see the moment when - away from curious eyes - the dog stood up and became a man.
Not just any man, either, but a one with an ebony dark skin and a figure that was half way to being a that of a giant. He stood taller than Hercules by a head and his shoulders were just as broad, if not broader. He was dressed in a simple loincloth cut from deerhide. His feet were bare, although there were bands of bone and leather sitting above each ankle. His strong, muscular arms were adorned with similar decoration, and his chest was draped with an ornate collar where the glimmer of ivory competed for space with pieces of polished amber. His shaven head gleamed in the sunlight - as did the half moon mark that sat on his right arm, just below his shoulder.
"Seven hounds?" he murmured, watching the two men move along the trail ahead of him. "Maybe. Maybe not ..."
The dust swirled in the dank air that filled the tomb, lifted by the noxious breezes that drifted from the abyss. The torches flickered fitfully, painting angled shadows on the carved walls.
"Well, I’m awake," Periphas considered slowly, pacing along the edge of the tilted dais and looking down into the crevasse as he did so. "But - uh - how’s about free?"
He returned to the centre of the smooth marble slab, lifting his eyes from the depths to stare at the far end of his prison instead. There, almost hidden in the subterranean gloom, was an archway, the way through it sealed by a heavy slab of granite. The skeletal warriors turned their heads to stare in the same direction, each letting out a low hiss that might have been indrawn breath - had they lungs with which to draw it.
A shriveled hand enfolded the jeweled apex of the staff, briefly eclipsing its baleful light. Then the hand drew back, taking some of the cold fire with it, a crackling ball of energy that filled the shriveled fingers and threw macabre shadows on its wielder’s face. Casually - almost carelessly - the sorcerer tossed the gathered light across the crevasse. It flew forward, picking up speed as it went, past the angled bones of dead men whose empty eyes turned to follow its passage, and on until - with a flare of electric brilliance - it impacted against the cold granite and sank into the stone.
"Yesss," Periphas hissed, and clenched his fist with a snap.
There was a soft crack from deep within the stone slab. Then another. And another, thin tendrils of damage blossoming across its surface. A piece tumbled away, shattering into dust as it hit the floor. The cracks widened. The stone crumbled - and then shattered entirely, releasing an avalanche of gravel that spread out across the floor.
A single shaft of sunlight speared down into the eerie gloom.
The skeletal army stepped back almost as one man, lifting bony arms to shield their empty eyes. The sorcerer did much the same, reacting to the warm light with revulsion.
"Ah nuts," he growled, turning away with a sound of anger and protest. "I knew there had to be some kinda catch to all of this."
He held his pose a moment longer, then lowered his arms and began to chuckle evilly.
"Ohh-kay," he declared with relish. "If I don’t get to see the light - then no-one else will either."
He straightened, lifting his staff in one hand and raising the other, tilting his head back and drawing his withered frame up to its full height.
"Hey. Hera. Mighty queen of heaven, ruler of the stars and all that other stuff, yada yada. Listen up a moment, will ya?"
The ground rumbled uneasily; the ravaged warriors swayed a little but kept their feet. The sorcerer lifted his arms a second time.
"You’ve always been my empress, right? Most radiant of all gods, most powerful of immortals, most generous of benefactors and all that?
"Well, do me a favour, okay? Cut me loose from this place. Chuck down your cloak or something. Let me and the boys walk beneath its shadow.
"You do that - and I’ll drench your altar with all the blood and stuff you’d ever want. I’ll offer up every kid in the city. And I’ll strike down every man jack that tries to stop me. Strike him down, steal his soul and make him join the company. You know the routine.
"So. How about it, huh? Sweet queen o’ heaven, just lend old Periphas here your darkness.
"’Cos I swear - when I’m King of the Hill, I’ll rule the whole damn world in your name.
"Forever!"
The heat of the day still wrapped the world in a heavy blanket which, beneath the canopy of thickening forest, had become a humid weight that sucked at both energy and strength. The trail was uncertain, blocked in places by a toppled tree or a shift of loose scree, debris tumbled from the fragile rock surfaces that made up the lower slopes of the mountain. Nor was the traveling made any easier by the aftershocks that shuddered through the ground for a while, echoing that first savage shake. They made a good pace despite all that, climbing steadily and heading due west by the angle of the afternoon sun. Its relentless fire was lessened a little by the canopy of trees, although it struck down hard whenever they emerged into open ground.
They were a good league or more out of Thiras when Iolaus began to cast wary glances over his shoulder, hunter’s instincts warning of someone - or something - following on their trail. He saw nothing out of place, he heard nothing he could distinguish from the expected sounds of the day, but he was almost sure they had gained a shadow from somewhere. Hercules strode ahead with his usual indefatigable stride, his eyes fixed on the rising ground and his mind undoubtedly focused on their destination, and his partner hesitated to remark on what was currently little more than an anxious feeling. They had joked about the haunted nature of this particular patch of forest, a reputation the son of Zeus had been quick to dismiss, and the hunter had the distinct feeling that to mention his suspicions without evidence to support them would merely earn him a patient look and a possible lecture on not letting his imagination run away with him.
But the further they walked the more certain he was that there was something at his heels, and whoever it was stalking their journey, they were really good at it. So good that they betrayed no hint of their presence over that itchy feeling that had settled between his shoulder blades. There were only three types of individual that he could think of who would be able to meet that skill: an experienced hunter like himself, a trained assassin, or a supernatural creature of some sort, like a dryad - or a ghost ...
Stop it, he told himself irritatedly. The heat had to be getting to him. Ghosts didn’t usually walk about in broad daylight. They preferred dark nights and dank shadows. They lurked in chill places under the earth, exiles from the netherworld, neither living nor completely dead. Sunlight could dispel their power - and the beating heat from this sun was surely enough to disrupt even the most dreadful of such spirits.
All the same ...
He turned on his heel and walked backwards for a way, watching the woods for signs of a more benign creature: the quicksilver shake of undergrowth as a wood nymph darted through it, the flash of a hunter’s tunic, even the gleam of betraying steel. He saw nothing. Which did little to alleviate his sense of unease.
"Iolaus," Hercules called. "What are you doing?"
He turned round, to find his friend standing at the top of an angled rocky outcrop looking down at him with gentle amusement.
"I think there’s someone following us," he said, still a little reluctant to make it that concrete. Hercules scanned their surroundings from his vantage point, finishing his inspection with a puzzled shake of his head.
"I don’t see anyone. You sure?"
"No," the blond hunter admitted, turning to assail the natural staircase with athletic dexterity. "But I still got this feeling ..."
Hercules put down his hand and lifted his friend up to join him in the sunlight. The sun was lower in the sky now, but still poured warmth across the slopes of the mountain like honey poured over one of Alcmene’s spice cakes. Iolaus paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes and then glanced back down the way they had come.
"There’s no-one there," Hercules assured him. "Come on." He set off at a rapid pace, long legs covering the ground with tireless energy. His partner sighed, setting his shoulders and bounding after him with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. There were days, he considered with long accustomed sufferance, that the son of Zeus forgot that his best friend was only mortal ...
They covered another league, the ground still rising underfoot. Iolaus snatched a moment’s respite beside a small stream that cascaded down across their chosen path, pausing to dip both hands into the clear water and splash some of the stickiness from his face. He ran damp hands through his hair and dipped a second time for a drink. Something whirred out of the undergrowth behind him and he reacted with alarm, spinning round to jerk back as a large bird took to the air barely inches from his face. He was taken off balance, tripped backwards, and fell, in a somewhat undignified manner, into the bed of the stream. Hercules, alerted by the noise, spun round - to find his partner sitting ruefully under the miniature waterfall, taking an impromptu bath.
"Don’t tell me," he laughed, starting back down the trail. "Someone pushed you."
Iolaus denied the suggestion with a wry shake of his head, scattering a fine rain of droplets as he did so. "Not exactly," he admitted, succumbing to the ridiculousness of his situation and leaning back to get thoroughly soaked. "Aah - that feels good."
The son of Zeus shook his head, fighting down an indulgent smile at his friend’s ability to loose his dignity without losing his sense of humour. "Sometimes," he observed, reaching down a muscular arm to help the man back to his feet, "I wonder what Missy saw in you."
The sodden hunter grinned. "You know," he confided, using the proffered arm to haul himself upright, "sometimes I wonder that myself." He paused to think about it, unconcerned by the fact that he was still calf deep in water, and laughed, a soft ripple of self-consciousness born from recent memories. He glanced down at his hand, turning it so that the silver mark that lay in his palm flashed briefly in the sun. "Not that I’m about to complain," he concluded good-naturedly, and Hercules shook his head a second time.
"Come on," he ordered warmly, turning back to the trail. "We’re losing time here."
"Right behind you, Herc," Iolaus assured him, actually quite refreshed by the unexpected soaking. He cast around for his sword and his pack, spotting them right where he’d left them, and reached down for the strap.
Then his reach - and his smile - froze, his eye caught by the shimmering feather that lay just where his hand was poised to go. A tail feather from the bird that had startled him, perhaps - except that only one bird could drop that particular multicoloured feather, patterned in iridescent greens and blues.
A peacock’s feather.
Hera’s calling card, left right where he would find it.
But she was - wasn’t she?
"Herc?" he questioned, all his senses snapping back to full alert.
"Come on, Iolaus." The call drifted down the slope, sounding oddly distant. The hunter snatched up his gear and raced after his companion, barely noticing as their route passed between two carved pillars, so old and untended that they were practically swallowed by their covering of ivy. Such things were not uncommon on the road, since Greece was full of ruins and remnants of old settlements. What he did notice was the sudden chill that shivered through him as he hurried up the incline, almost as if he’d walked through a curtain of shadow.
Some five minutes later he finally caught up with his partner, who had reached the top of that particular slope and was staring up at the shape of the mountain that dominated the view beyond. Iolaus skidded to a halt beside him and looked up to see what he was staring at. There was the sun, hanging even lower in the sky and painting the afternoon with sultry heat - and there was the mountain, which should have been bright in the sunlight, a honey touched curve of rock and wild greenery.
Should have been.
Because, where the mountain lifted its head into the sky, a line of shadow was spilling down it, a dark cloak racing headlong towards the valley below. There was nothing to cast that shadow, nothing between mountainside and the unmerciful sun, but still it grew, sweeping downhill like a wave, picking up speed as it came.
"By the gods," Iolaus swore, unable to take his eyes off that torrent of darkness. It was pouring down the mountain side, filling the valley that was their destination, painting every slope, every hollow with a deep and merciless gloom.
And was heading relentlessly in their direction ...
Hercules’s hand touched his shoulder, dragging his gaze away from the uncanny sight. He met steel blue eyes written deep with alarm and nodded an understanding of their message; they turned almost as one and began to run back down the slope, away from that avalanche of shadow, a decided sense of urgency driving their steps.
The two men raced downwards, crashing through the undergrowth, pursued by something they had no time to comprehend. Their speed was driven by desperation, but it wasn’t enough. The darkness caught up with them and overwhelmed them, engulfing them in ice cold air and wrapping them in a mantle of gloom so deep it was as if night had fallen. Iolaus stumbled at the impact, tumbling forward and rolling over and over with the momentum of his fall. It brought him, breathless and dizzy, to the foot of the ancient gateway that he’d passed only a few minutes before.
A gateway that was now sealed by a shimmering gate, a network of peacock feathers wrought in lines of gloomy fire. He rolled onto his back and stared at the unearthly construction, trying to fathom what it was. The world he occupied - the one this side of the gate - was now as cold as winter and as dark as night. On the other side stretched a sunlit slope, shimmering in the afternoon heat.
Hercules dropped to one knee beside him, a broad shouldered shadow in a world of shadows, staring up at the apparition with bewilderment.
"Are you all right?" The question was asked distractedly, the speaker’s eyes lifted to take in the wall of darkness that loomed over them both. Iolaus followed the line of it up - and up - until it curved over to claim the sky - a totally black sky, bereft of both stars and moon. He shivered, the remnants of his drenching no longer a welcome refreshment but rapidly becoming a chilling dampness that was soaking right through to his bones.
"Herc," he declared, through chattering teeth. "I think we’re in trouble. I think we’re in real trouble ..."
The shaft of sunlight had now been swallowed by a gloom as deep as the one that lay in the seemingly bottomless abyss. Two ravaged warriors crept to the doorway, peering out into the tunnel that lay beyond it. The rest gathered up fallen weapons, arming their dry bones with pitted steel and cobwebbed helms. Periphas turned his staff until it lay horizontally across his hands and - holding it out in front of him - he drifted over the gaping pit, his power carrying his wizened weight with ease.
"Okay, boys, " he ordered, walking through the deathly army that awaited him. "Let’s go check out the neighborhood. You - " He whirled on four of the warriors who dipped in eagerness to hear his command. "Yeah, you. Go find me a takeaway. I feel like a little - soul food. Know what I mean?
"You - " Three more, equally eager. "Go give the city the once over. Check out how they’re defended. As for the rest of ya - " He paused to admire his troops, their whitened bones gleaming in the flicker of the torches. "Let’s go see what they did to the old homestead, huh? We can leave Dinæ to stew for a while. A little cold, a little dark - they’ll be real glad to see us by the time we get there. Welcome us with open arms, right?
"And if not?" He laughed, softly, reaching to stroke one bony jaw with a withered finger. "Well - if anyone wants to be a hero - I know how to deal with heroes. Don’t I, boys?"
His laugh rang around the cold tomb, echoing and re-echoing in its depths. Still chuckling, he lead the way from his place of imprisonment, flanked by the remnants of men.
Somewhere behind him, rising out of the crevasse, other things began to creep. They were shadows and shapes, with many legs and misshapen bodies. Creatures spawned in nightmares crawled up from the underworld and scuttled out into the unnatural night ...
The fire flared into welcome heat, dispelling the looming shadows and revealing them to be nothing more menacing than the toss of tree branches in a fitful wind. Hercules hauled down one such branch and used it to fashion a couple of makeshift torches while Iolaus knelt by their meager source of warmth and tried to encourage some feeling back into his chilled limbs.
The wall of darkness had proved to be a solid barrier that didn’t yield an inch even when the son of Zeus extended his full strength against it. It was bitterly cold to the touch and as slick as ice. It was if they - along with the mountain and the valley it sheltered - had been sealed into a vast dome of smoked glass, cutting them off from the sun and all trace of its heat. Hercules had known better than to test his strength against the intricate gate; the softly glowing structure radiated hate and malice with equal venom.
Immediate escape had proved impossible, so he’d turned his attention to more pressing matters - like the fact that his companion was in danger of turning into an icicle from what had earlier seemed like a harmless soaking. The fire had been the obvious answer, even if it meant advertising their presence to whatever dark forces might be stalking in the shadows. They would have need of it in any case, the artificial darkness being much deeper than a normal night and the sky bereft of any guiding stars. They would have to make their way to Dinæ in conditions akin to being underground and that meant supplying their own source of light.
"I don’t get it," Iolaus said worriedly, vigorously chafing at his shoulders with heat warmed palms. "This has to be Hera’s doing, but, you said ... You saw her fall, right? All the way down? Besides - it’s not her style, Herc. She prefers direct attack - monsters, enforcers - that kind of thing."
"Don’t speak too soon," Hercules advised, moving over to coax the first of his torches into life. The hunter quirked a small smile.
"Good advice," he noted, glancing up at the gloom that lay over them with oppressive presence. "She might be listening. I wouldn’t want to give her any ideas ..."
"No chance," a deep voice interjected from somewhere very close. "Voice of little hero just noise to her ..."
Hercules spun, thrusting out the now burning torch towards the origin of the sound. Iolaus rose from his crouch and caught up the second one, stepping back defensively and dipping it into the fire until it flared with light.
"Who’s there?" the son of Zeus demanded, staring into the gloom. "Show yourself."
A soft laugh followed the demand, a low chuckle that might have come from the depths of the earth. "Okay," the voice said with amusement. "I try."
A shadow detached itself from the murk, a heavy set shadow that had little definition until it came within the reach of the blazing torch. Touches of ivory mirrored the fitful light, gleaming at wrist and waist and chest. A brief white smile flashed out of the gloom, below a pair of bright and piercing eyes - but the man himself was wrought from darkness, his skin reflecting ebon depths across which the torchlight danced like the shimmer of moonlight on deep water.
"Well met, son of Zeus," the deep voice offered, one dark hand thrust out in greeting.
Iolaus was busy measuring the new arrival against his friend, and his expression was growing wide eyed and worried. Hercules eyed both hand and owner distrustfully.
"Do I know you?" he asked, keeping the torch high so as to better see the figure in front of him. The man lowered his hand and stared back at him.
"We met," he said tersely. "When you won arrow."
The son of Zeus threw a questioning look at his mortal partner - who shrugged an eloquent bewilderment. Clearly this was not one of the unsavory mercenaries that Ares had recruited to carry out his dirty work at the Hermia some two weeks previously. But neither was he one of the competitors - Hercules would have remembered a man like this. A man who towered over him - and carried his gigantic frame with the easy grace of a skilled athlete.
Dark eyes darted to follow the shared look, and the lips beneath them twisted with what might have been amused contempt. "He there, too."
Iolaus’s eyes narrowed into a wary frown - an expression Hercules mirrored, not liking the scornful note that lay beneath the words.
"Who are you?" he demanded softly. "And what do want with us?"
The man who was mostly giant smiled, a proud baring of teeth, filled more with intimidation than with friendly intentions. "I am Orion," he announced. "I am Hunter." The smile widened further, adding to its proud challenge. "I am hound. First hound," he concluded with a hint of a growl.
Orion? Iolaus mouthed, looking a little thunderstruck. Hunter ...? Then he frowned. "Hey - " he realised. "You were the one following us, back down the trail, right?"
Orion’s smile vanished. His head turned towards the implied challenge with a snap. "You saw?"
"Uh - no," came the wary admission. "But I knew someone was behind us - and it had to be someone who knew what they were doing."
Dark eyes flashed with unreadable emotion. "I practice," the Hunter dismissed, returning his attention to Hercules. The smile came back. "You not know I was there."
"So why were you?" Hercules asked, still looking at the new arrival with suspicion. Orion shrugged.
"Because," he dismissed lightly. "Now - " he looked around, indicating the surrounding darkness with a sweep of his hand. "Nowhere to go. You need help. I give it." He paused to look the son of Zeus up and down, then glanced over at his partner’s wary stance and quirked another of those contemptuous sneers. "You need it."
Iolaus bristled at the thinly veiled insult, stepping forward to stand defensively at Hercules’s side, and hefting his torch warningly. "How do we know," he asked tightly, "that you’re who you claim to be?"
Orion’s eyes narrowed, studying his mortal challenger with an odd intenseness. "Because," he growled, "I wear mark." He twisted so that the half moon on his arm gleamed in the torchlight. "I honour it"
"That’s Artemis’s mark, all right," Hercules noted thoughtfully. He glanced down at his partner - who was glowering at the challenge that had backed the man’s words - then made a decision and held out a welcoming hand. "We’ll be glad of your company."
"Speak for yourself," Iolaus muttered, stalking away to thrust his torch into the soft earth and hunker back down by the fire. The look he shot in Orion’s direction was a distrustful one; the man ignored him.
"This not good," he announced, indicating the darkened sky with his hand. "Bad wreaking. Hera’s wreaking. Stinks of death."
"Tell us something we don’t know," came the caustic comment from the fire. Hercules frowned.
"We were heading for Dinæ," he considered thoughtfully. "I think we should continue in that direction. At least until we find out a little more about what’s going on."
Orion nodded. "I lead. Find trail. You follow?"
"Yeah," Hercules agreed. "Sounds good. You want to take a torch?"
The dark skinned giant laughed. "Afraid of dark, Hercules? Dark can’t hurt you."
"This one might," the son of Zeus pointed out, holding out the blazing brand. "And while we probably could follow you without one, I think we should stay close. I don't like the feel of this. We could meet practically anything."
Orion hesitated - then took the torch, its light gleaming off ebony skin. "Okay." He took half a step away, then turned back. "I move fast. He keep up?"
The question earned him an angry glare; Iolaus snatched up his sword, heaved his pack onto his shoulder and hoiked the second torch back out of the ground. "You go as fast as you like," he spat, tossing the torch to his partner who caught it easily. A sweep of a booted foot extinguished the tiny fire. "I’ll be right behind you. All the way."
Hercules gave him an anxious look. "You sure you’re up to this?" he asked. "We could stay a little longer if -"
"I’ll work up a sweat," the golden haired hunter growled, adopting a don’t you start frown that brooked no argument. "That’ll dry me off. I’m not about to be left behind here." He threw a second glare at Orion, who still waited at the edge of the clearing. "And what are you waiting for? The Solstice?"
He didn’t catch - although Hercules did - the amused smile with which the dark skinned figure turned towards the waiting valley. The son of Zeus wondered at it - just a little - shook his head and set off after the flicker of light that marked Orion’s path. Iolaus paused to stamp on the embers, grinding them into the dirt with far more force than was probably necessary, then he ran after his partner, taking advantage of the trail that the two larger men were being forced to break through the undergrowth ahead of him.
Within moments, the fitful light of the torches was lost within the overwhelming gloom.
Borus and Lucan had taken their flock of goats to the upper slopes that morning, seeking pastures that had not been dried by the unseasonable heat. The goats had scattered when the earthquake had hit and they’d spent some time trying to round them up again. When the darkness fell over the mountain their first thought was that an eclipse had blotted out the sun and they had waited for some sign of radiance to return. When it had failed to do so after half an hour they had lit the one candle they had between them, rounded up those goats they could find, and started to make their way down into the valley. The two men walked close together, neither of them prepared to admit to being scared, but both of them utterly unnerved by their situation.
"Perhaps the gods have abandoned us," Lucan ventured anxiously, peering into the dark. His brother shook his head, although he didn’t look very convinced.
"The city respects the gods," he said. "We sacrifice regularly, don’t we? We gave up that good kid to Demeter last month."
"Yeah," Lucan agreed. "Yeah, that’s right. Maybe she doesn’t like goat ..."
"Did you hear that?" Borus interrupted, coming to a halt and turning his head in alarm. He held out the candle in the relevant direction and the flame guttered fitfully in the chill breeze.
"Hear what? I didn’t hear anything. Just goats. That’s all it is, Borus. Just the g-g-goats ..."
Goats that started to stream past them in panic, jostling for escape. The two men huddled together, their eyes darting this way and that as the frightened animals thundered past them, trying to determine what had caused their alarm.
"Wolves," Borus decided, hefting his crook and taking a step back up the trail. "The darkness has made the wolves bold, that’s all."
Something reached out of the shadows and tapped Lucan on the shoulder. He turned. His eyes went impossibly wide. His mouth worked, searching for a scream that just wouldn’t come. Then his eyes rolled up and he fainted clean away, crumpling to the ground without a sound.
"Let’s get down to the city, Lucan," Borus suggested, turning back to where his brother should have been. "Lucan?" He took another step and stumbled over the comatose form that now lay at his feet. "Lucan! What are you doing down - down - " His voice dried in his throat. His hand shook. The candle light had fallen on the gleam of something white next to his brother’s shoulder. An angled foot, supporting a leg too slender to be human, a leg made up of a pair of bleached bones, and above that the angle of a knee joint and more bones, too many bones, looming out of the darkness in a parody of a man. All topped by a grinning skull and a pair of burning eyes that shone with their own evil light. "No," Borus gasped, stumbling backwards, and dropping the candle. The light went out. Only those eyes were left, moving closer and gleaming in the darkness. "Nooo ..."
Orion didn’t keep up his headlong stride for long. The ground rose steeply for a while, then began to angle down in a series of tilted steps; the journey would have been demanding even at a walking pace, and the lack of light turned the country from challenging terrain into serious obstacle course. Before long the half giant was leading the way at a far more studied rate, the light from his torch bobbing this way and that as he identified the safest route to follow. That meant the heroes on his heels could follow side by side, saving most of their breath for the journey but discussing their new companion with lowered voices and wary words.
Well - actually most of the words belonged to Iolaus. Hercules merely commented on them with the odd uhuh of agreement and the occasional mmhuh of denial.
"You know who he has to be, don’t you?"
"Uhuh."
"‘I am Orion. I am Hunter ...’ He’s the Hunter, Herc. The greatest hunter that ever walked this earth."
Iolaus thought about that as he said it. About the tales of a giant raised out of the earth by the will of the gods, his strength almost as legendary as that of the hero who walked beside him, and his reputation as a hunter unsurpassed by any man. About other tales - ones that spoke of his life, of how he had been beloved of the Huntress yet arrogant enough to think himself above her laws - and how he had been slain by her in a fit of jealous rage. About how legend suggested that he had been raised to the ranks of the immortals after his death. And about a silver crescent moon etched into an ebony shoulder and the dark eyes of its owner, looking at him with unreadable intent, their message obscured by the flicker of torchlight.
"Guess so."
"So what’s he doing here? Following us? You don’t think he’s got anything to do with the rest of this thing do you?"
"Mmhuh."
"No - that would be ridiculous, right? I mean - he’s a hound of Artemis. He’d never ally himself with Hera ..."
Would he? Who could say what motivated a barbarian like that? A man born at the dawn of time when Titans struggled to possess the earth and mortals had barely learned the secret of fire? He would be raw power and rawer emotion. All of it now dedicated to the protection of the goddess that he served ... "You think Missy sent him?"
Hercules shrugged, a how would I know kind of shrug. Iolaus frowned.
"He’d have said, wouldn’t he? Said something."
Something other than those scornful aspersions, those contemptuous assessments that had raised his hackles far more than any direct insult might have done. He’d been named hound by the goddess herself - and this man, this Hunter, who carried the same mark, who claimed the same title and should have greeted him as a brother, had treated him as less than the dirt beneath his feet.
"Uhuh."
"You think we can trust him? Really trust him?"
"Uhuh."
"You sure about that? He seems pretty sure of himself, that’s for certain. Full of it. But then I guess he would be. Being a demi-god and all. Why should he worry?"
The conversation was interrupted as they realised their guide had lead them to the top of a long downward slope of loose scree. It would have been an exhilarating obstacle on a normal day. In the unnatural gloom, with nothing but a flaming torch to illuminate potential hazards, it was going to be a real heart in mouth, leap in the dark experience. Hercules waited until it looked as if the light of the first torch had reached firm ground and then began his descent, taking long measured strides which disturbed the surface as little as possible. Iolaus watched him in the torchlight, gauging how the stones moved under his weight. It looked intimidating. It sounded intimidating, with the shifting and sliding of the gravel rumbling like a muffled tide striking along a stony beach. One misstep in that and a man might find himself buried deep, submerged in a wild avalanche of rock and shale.
And Orion would be waiting at the bottom, probably ready with a scornful remark or two for when this mere mortal fell flat on his face ....
"Yeah, sure," Iolaus muttered, well aware he had nothing to prove but sufficiently irritated to want to demonstrate the fact. Hercules - and his torch - had reached the bottom of the slope and joined the waiting light below him; the angled scree was nothing but a dark surface in a shrouded world.
So he backed up a little, took a moment to establish his balance over his heels - and headed for the edge at a run, leaping straight out into the dark.
He went with a whoop, lifted by the moment, by the sheer thrill of challenging both himself and the world together. He twisted over in a smooth somersault, and landed part way down the slope, his feet apart, his heels digging into the rough scree and his impact starting a small avalanche which carried him downwards at speed. He bent his knees and surfed the rest of the way, using his scabbarded sword as a balance and riding the surface as if it were a wave.
If he’d hit a jutting rock or lost his balance he’d have wiped out in spectacular fashion, but he managed not to do either and was delivered, heart pounding and dignity intact, more or less to Hercules’ feet. He slewed to a controlled halt and strolled into the pool of torchlight, greeting his partner with a grin.
"That was fun," he announced. "Can we go back and do it again?"
"I don’t think so," Hercules laughed, amused at his friend’s bravado. Orion merely looked at him, his expression unreadable in the flicker of the light.
"We go," he said curtly and set off without checking to see if he were being followed.
Iolaus stared after the departing torch in puzzlement. "What is it with him?" he asked, earning a shake of the head from his partner, along with another of those noncommittal shrugs. Hercules was clearly as baffled by their new companion’s behavior as he was. Still, their energetic walk had banished most of the chill that had soured his mood and the sheer adrenaline of his descent had succeeded in restoring the rest of his humour; maybe, he decided, the Hunter was just a little more disconcerted by their situation than he was prepared to admit.
"Come on," he encouraged, taking the middle slot and leaving Hercules to bring up the rear of their party.
Which was why - when Orion halted in his tracks some few hundred paces later - it was Iolaus who practically ran into the back of him.
"Gods," the warrior swore, avoiding the collision with an athletic twist and a couple of impetus driven side steps that brought him face to face with their guide. "Give me some warning, willya? You’re not exactly easy to see in this light."
"Quiet," Orion growled, his whole stance on alert. "Be still."
Something in the man’s tone froze Iolaus to the spot. Silence - the unnatural silence that had accompanied their journey ever since the darkness had fallen - flowed back to fill the clearing in which they stood. The warrior could hear Hercules approaching, the crack of broken twigs and the crunch of earth and gravel delineating his footsteps. He could hear his own soft breath, speeded by the effort expended on the trail. He could even hear Orion’s slow intake of air, a studied, easy sound compared to his own.
And he could hear something else. Something faint but very close by. Something that sounded like dry wood rubbed against dry wood, or old rough leather.
"There," Orion announced, thrusting his torch at the ground. A shape scuttled away from the heat; a shape that had too many legs and moved like lightning. Iolaus caught a glimpse of something that looked jet black and shiny in the red gold light, something that was at least three handspans in length - and came equipped with nightmarish claws and a barbed tail …
The Hunter drew in an angry breath and stabbed out with the torch a second time. The thing - whatever it was - scuttled back into the shadows.
"Something wrong?" Hercules asked from the edge of the clearing.
Orion grimaced. Iolaus, who was slowly drawing his sword, did much the same. "We’ve got - a little problem, Herc. Stay right where you are. There may be more of these things."
"Two," the Hunter spat, his eyes darting across the darkness, the torch trailing out to illuminate the ground.
"Two what?" Hercules demanded, lifting his own torch and peering worriedly at the tableaux in front of him.
"Scorpions. Of Styx." Orion answered, punctuating each word with a thrust of the torch, one to the right, two to the left. Dark shapes scuttled away from the light. Iolaus felt his mouth go dry. The scorpions that inhabited the banks of the river Styx were supposed to be vicious scavengers, feeding on the rotting corpses that drifted down that dark river. But they dwelt in the realms that Hades ruled, creatures of shadow and darkness, brothers to other, even less savoury creatures that roamed the depths of Tarterus. What, in the name of all the gods, were two of them doing here, in what should be a sunlit valley in Southern Arcadia?
"Don’t move, either of you," the son of Zeus advised, dropping his own torch to get a better look at the ground. "Their sting is deadly."
"I really needed to know that," Iolaus muttered, carefully shifting his grip on his sword pommel until the weapon hung from his hand like an oversized dagger. Orion’s eyes darted to the glitter of the blade and he nodded once, a terse approval of the tactic.
"Strike hard," he advised. "Quick."
It sounded like good advice; the warrior tensed, listening for the approach of the creatures as much as watching for them. They were on both sides now, circling, testing the defensive reach of the torch. Orion was keeping them back with sharp stabs of the light, but they were growing bolder, darting in and out, their claws snapping at the flaming wood as it came within their reach. It wouldn’t be that long before one of them figured out that the torch had no power to reach behind the warrior’s boots - and a trickle of cold sweat was crawling down his spine in anticipation of one of them crawling up it …
The torch thrust down. No shadow retreated on that side - and Iolaus spun, thrusting the sword blade down with as much strength as he could muster. It hit home hard, piercing an armored carapace and pinning the creature to the ground; it let out a shriek that sounded like a wounded soul, its claws convulsed in reaction and its barbed tail struck at the sword blade again and again, painting it with poison.
He let it quiver out its life beneath the blade, then tugged the point free, gloom adjusted eyes searching the shadows for its mate. Time slowed to an agonising crawl. The shadows danced in front of his eyes, revealing nothing. He held himself still, poised to react at the slightest movement, his heart pounding and his breath tight. If he struck and missed, he’d be dead for certain. …
"There," he heard Orion announce. Torchlight flashed at his side, revealing the gleam of polished shell and he lunged forward with a yell, striking hard and fast. The point sunk home and he used the anchored length to lift himself up and over in a wild leap, barely avoiding the dying whip of the scorpion’s deadly tail. "Thanks," he turned to say, meeting eyes as dark as the nightmarish creatures he had just dispatched. For a moment a smile hovered in their depths - and then shutters closed down over the Hunter’s face and he turned away without a word.
"Nasty creatures," Hercules observed, moving forward cautiously to study the nearest corpse.
"Hate them," Orion growled, thrusting the torch down to ignite the sprawled body. It flared up like dry tinder, and quickly burnt away to nothing but ash.
"What in the name of Hades," Iolaus demanded, retrieving his sword and frowning at the ichor that stained its blade, "are they doing here? They belong in the underworld, right? Now, unless I’ve missed something somewhere, we are not in Tarterus. Or any of its suburbs. Are we?" he queried with sudden unease, looking around at the shadow filled world and wondering if perhaps he had missed something and was now wandering in a place he’d hoped not to visit again for a long time ...
Hercules shook his head, frowning at the blaze that the Hunter’s torch had created from the second corpse. Orion snorted.
"Ground shake," he stated, directing his explanation at Hercules rather than the man asking the question. "Ground open." He concluded with a matter of fact shrug. "Way through."
"Makes sense," the son of Zeus agreed, looking up at where the sky ought to be. "Without the sun to drive them back, creatures of shadow might be tempted to venture out into the upper world."
"Oh - that’s just wonderful," Iolaus breathed, leaning down to wipe his sword through the nearest clump of grass. "A open doorway into the underworld. You know what that means? There could be practically anything wandering about around here ..."
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