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Bound by His Brother's Heart Part Two: Pythia |
If the mouth of the jade snake had looked intimidating from a distance then close up it was positively daunting. The upper jaw yawned high overhead, its gleaming green fangs jutting down with decided menace. The lower lay sunk into the earth, forming the first step down into an immeasurable darkness. Dankness breathed up from the depths, wrapping an already damp and chilled frame in a clammy embrace. Iolaus shivered and tightened his hold on his sword.
What in Tarterus am I doing?
Well, he wasn’t in Tarterus, for a start. He was in a place that existed only in legends, pursuing a dangerous and equally legendary quest with no certainty of how it might end. Not even of how it should end. He was no stranger to the hero business, but he knew this was going to demand a lot more from him than practically all of his past adventures put together - and for this one he’d be on his own. Completely on his own. He’d committed himself to a difficult path with nothing but half memories of old tales he’d heard as a child to guide his steps.
Which was either the bravest or the stupidest thing he’d ever done.
Even if he hadn’t had a lot of choice in the matter.
Better start remembering those bed-time stories real quick, Iolaus.
Not an easy thing to do when half your mind was distracted by the soft scream of pain from what should have been mortal wounds.
And might still prove to be ...
Iolaus shook that thought from his head and frowned with decided determination. He ought to do something about that. He’d learnt a few tricks in his recent travels and - while he couldn’t make the pain go away - he knew how to tell his body to ignore it, at least for a little while. He took a few deep breaths and spent a moment in inner concentration; when he re-opened his eyes his whole attention was focused on the path ahead.
Let’s get back to those old tales ...
There was always the chance that he was imagining all of this. That he was lying in the bottom of that pit, delirious with pain and that this place, this echo of childhood tales, was just a hallucination. But he didn’t think that was the case at all. The goddess had been real enough - and if he was where he thought he was, then he was going to have to face the rest of it.
You used to play at being the Summer King, he reminded himself, recalling those days with the irony of hindsight. Pretending that you’d won through all the dangers and earned the hero’s crown ...
Well, he’d already fulfilled the first part of the quest - the bit about the blood sacrifice and the taking of the sacred oath. This was the second part of the journey. The descent into the depths. And this - cavern - was the threshold of Winter, the gateway into darkness.
There would be a guardian of some sort.
There was always a guardian.
And wasn’t there something about answering a riddle, or offering up a gift ...?
"You gonna stand there all day?"
The voice made him jump. He spun towards its source, dropping into a half crouch and drawing his blade. There was an old woman standing just inside the carved mouth, right at the junction of the snake’s jaws. An old woman; her hair was a straggle of gray string, her skin was wrinkled and sagging, and she was hunched over as if her shoulders had grown too heavy for her fragile frame. She was wrapped in a dark gray wool cloak and she was leaning on tall staff, one that was carved into crooked shapes and ended in a gnarled knob half the size of his head.
"Who - ?" His question tailed off under her piercing gaze. Her eyes were hooded but they glared at him with a brooding menace that was decidedly disconcerting. Don’t mess with me, young man, the look said. I expect nothing but respect ...
"I’m sorry," he said, straightening up a little self consciously. "I - uh - didn’t see you there."
"Obviously not," she snapped. Her hand beckoned him over with imperious demand. "Let me look at you."
He lowered his sword and walked across to join her, stepping carefully over the jagged line of carved teeth that ran around the edge of the leviathan’s lower jaw. "Ma’m," he acknowledged warily. She scowled at him.
"So," she rasped. "You’re the champion sent to serve the tree, huh? Not much of you, is there?"
He reacted to the implied insult with habitual indignation. "There’s enough," he retorted pointedly. Her lips split in a toothless grin.
"There’d better be," she cackled. "Well - you look the part, at least. More than the last one did." Her grin became a knowing leer. "Not that he got very far, mind you. Arrogant fool. Only willing to offer lip service to the sacrifice. Pinpricks, that’s what he carried. Pinpricks. Not enough blood to write his name. Now, you ..." Her head lifted and her nostrils twitched as she scented the air appreciatively. Iolaus shivered involuntarily; there was something about the actions that made his blood run cold.
"Aah," the old woman breathed, her mouth working and her tongue licking at her lips. "That takes me back. So," she snapped, fixing him with a piercing glare. "You want to go down, do you? Down there? Into the dark? Think you’ve paid your entrance fee? Wrong!" she crowed, thrusting herself forward and making him step back in startled alarm. "I," she tapped her chest with a gnarled finger, "am the gatekeeper. Only I decide who can pass through the gate. This gate," she explained, poking her staff towards the gaping darkness that lay at the back of the carved throat. Iolaus looked in that direction. Sure enough, there was a gate - a shimmering lattice that faded in and out, the lacework of light that formed it twisting and shifting so that it was impossible to determine what shapes its outline defined. "The gate that stands between light and darkness. Day and night." Her lips twisted back into that knowing leer. "Life - and death," she hissed and laughed at his wide eyed reaction.
The gate between life and death?
He swallowed. Hard. If she was trying to scare him, she was doing a good job of it. A very good job.
"Can’t leave that unguarded," she went on, her laugh a soft wheeze of amusement. "Can we?"
"I guess not," he answered, taking a careful breath. "But - uh - I have to go down there. Don’t I?"
The old woman nodded, eyeing him up and down with almost hungry relish. "That’s the idea. Pay me and you can pass. Three things." She held up three withered fingers. "Must be three. And must be things I want."
Three things ...
Iolaus glanced down at himself with a puzzled frown. He didn’t think he had anything he could offer her as payment - let alone three. He was going to need his sword. Gaia had taken his father’s amulet, and - after that - all he had left were the clothes on his back.
"Didn’t they send you with anything?" the gatekeeper questioned, eyeing him with impatience. "Food for my table, wine to wet my tongue? No? Well, you must have something."
"I could - give you my cloak," he suggested doubtfully. "It’s good fur. Well, it - it was. But the tears could be mended and I - I suppose the blood will wash out." He was reaching to unfasten it as he spoke, unhooking the leather loop so that he could pull it free. The fur was weighted with water and matted with mud and blood; even so it had held a layer of warmth around his shoulders and he shivered as the cold air swirled in to replace it.
"It’s a start," the old woman decided, snatching the bedraggled garment from his outstretched hand and stuffing it under her own voluminous cloak. "Next!"
Next?
Maybe it wasn’t much of a gift to her, but he’d put an entire summer into that cloak - and Deinaira had added even more work, cleaning, preparing and sewing the furs.
And I don’t have anything else ...
"How about - my boots?" he suggested with sudden inspiration. "Cloak, boots - three things ...?"
"Boots are one thing," she corrected sharply. "They come as a pair. Like you and - that other self of yours. One boot might help a little bit, but it won’t really fulfill its true purpose without the other one to balance it." She paused to glare at him challengingly, then gave a little snort. "Huh," she said. "I’m getting soft , but - all right. Gimme your boots. I’ll accept ‘em as your second gift."
He opened his mouth to argue the point, then thought better of it and closed it again with a sigh. A quick glance round revealed no suitable place to perch, so he eased himself down to the ground instead, wincing as the movement stirred pain in both hip and thigh. The leather of his boots was as sodden as the rest of him and he had to wrestle with the swollen lacings before he could tug his feet free. He tipped the left one up, expecting his knife to tumble out of it, but there was no sign of the sturdy blade. A pity, because, after all the effort he and Hercules had put into the making of it, he’d hoped it would make a worthy gift.
"There," he declared, shoving the boots towards her with a push of bare toes. "That’s all I have. I’ve nothing else I can offer."
The old woman glowered at him. "Nothing?" she snapped. "What’s that then? Fools gold?"
He didn’t understand what she meant for a moment and - when he did - his heart sank into the boots he’d just handed over to her. "This?" His fingers brushed the loop of metal that dangled at his ear. "I don’t know, I - "
"Well?" she demanded, looming over him with menace. He swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat and shook his head with sorrowed determination.
"I - I can’t," he said, looking up to meet her baleful eyes. "Ania - my wife - it’s all I have to remind me ..."
Ohhh, she reacted, her aged face creasing into thoughtful lines. "A lover’s gift, huh? Well, that’s too bad. I never get any of those." Her shoulders shrugged and she rocked back and forth, leaning on her staff and watching him with narrowed eyes. "No third gift, no way through the gate ..."
He sighed, sinking his head into his hands.
I’ve got no choice, have I.
But I can’t ...
Ania would understand. I have to complete the quest or I’ll be trapped here - for all eternity.
I’d never see her again.
And I’ve nothing else to give ...
Have I?
Something the old woman had said sparked a thought that wouldn’t go away. Iolaus looked up, considering her wizened face with its slack lips. A line of spittle patterned one corner of her toothless mouth. His courage quailed, but he made the suggestion anyway, watching for her reaction, half hoping that she’d say no.
"How about I - give you a kiss?" he offered with a wary and - truth be told - embarrassed smile.
"A - what?" The gatekeeper frowned, giving him a suspicious look as if she hadn’t believed what she’d heard. He grabbed up his sword, carefully scrambled back onto his feet and took a determined breath.
"A kiss," he repeated resolutely.
She burst out laughing. "A kiss. A kiss?" The cackling laughter came to an abrupt halt. "You’re serious."
He nodded and she stared at him, her face thrust forward and her eyes hooded beneath furrowed brows. "No-one’s ever offered me a kiss before," she considered, her whole expression creased with suspicious doubt. He set his shoulders and tried to look nonchalant. Inside his skin was crawling, his sensibilities wrestling with the idea of kissing something so - so - repulsive.
She’s just an old woman.
She could be somebody’s mother. Or grandmother.
If she were my grandmother, I wouldn’t give it a second thought ...
Iolaus had been very young when his maternal grandmother had died. He’d barely known her. His father had been an orphan. And he didn’t think a few moments in Gaia’s company were enough to make her count.
The withered lips curled into a sudden smile. "Here," she demanded, turning her cheek towards him and pressing a bony finger against it to indicate the spot. "Make it a good one, handsome."
He took a deep breath to steel himself, strode forward the required pace, and planted a firm kiss right where she’d asked for it. It was a bit like kissing leather that had been set to cure too long and she had a scent about her that reeked of old things living past their time. But it was only her cheek - and she giggled like a young girl as his lips brushed her skin.
"Well," she considered, eyeing him with amusement as he stepped back. He’d tried not to heave a sigh of relief, but it sort of escaped all the same. "That was brave. And generous. You’re okay, you know?" she decided with a toothless grin. "You sure you want to go down there?"
He nodded, not really sure he wanted to, but knowing he had to all the same. She considered him for a moment longer, then began to laugh, a shrill cackle that shook her entire frame.
"A kiss," she chortled. "A kiss. Payment in full," she declared with relish. Her stuff swung out, the gnarled end striking the shimmer of the gate. The lattice vanished, leaving nothing but yawning darkness behind it. "Hurry," she hissed, still laughing. "Won’t stay open long."
He nodded his thanks, took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his sword hilt and strode boldly into the dark.
The horror had only held Hercules for a heart stopping moment. Comprehension had followed. Iolaus was alive. And that had inspired a white hot surge of adrenaline which spurred him into resolute action. It didn’t really matter that his way into the pit was blocked by the weight of branches that lay across it. The son of Zeus solved that problem by simply moving the tree.
He put his back to the broken trunk, dug his boot heels into the muddy ground and shoved. It moved reluctantly, but it did move, tearing a bruising gash across the earth while its broken branches ploughed deep furrows into the rain soaked land. Hercules didn’t care. He gritted his teeth and pushed even harder, watching as the gaping mouth of the pit was slowly revealed. It had to be enough - not just to let him climb down into it, but to let him lift its prisoner out.
Before it became his grave ...
Hold on, Iolaus.
I’ll be right there.
He put his back into another effort filled heave and the bulk of the tree slewed sideways, leaving one angled branch lying skewed across the narrow pit. That was less of a problem; one good tug was enough to tear it free from the main trunk. Hercules picked it up, half intending to toss it away, then changed his mind and put it carefully to one side instead. Once he’d got Iolaus out of the trap he’d need some way of getting him home - and he might be able to use the broken branch to construct a makeshift sled.
Of course, he’d carry the man if he had to - but if he were as badly hurt as his friend suspected he were, then a sled would probably be more practical.
First things first ...
Hercules pulled a rope from his pack and looped one end round the nearest tree branch before throwing the other into the pit. He could jump down, but he had to be able to get out again.
It wasn’t that much of a drop. Five feet at the most. But it was into a narrow space, most of which was already occupied. Hercules used the rope to guide himself down, kicking over the fire hardened stakes that speared upwards from his chosen corner. They snapped with an audible crack that made him wince.
Curse you, Croesus.
The old woodcarver was a superb craftsman. When he staked a pit, it wasn’t just with a few makeshift spikes hammered into the mud. He’d constructed a lattice base and hammered the stakes up through it, ensuring that they’d stay firmly in place until they rotted through.
The bottom of the pit was awash with liquid, a cold soup of mud and blood and rainwater that was several inches deep and icy cold. Hercules barely noticed the temperature; he was down on his knees in it without hesitation, reaching to gently cup his friend’s cheek and turn those familiar features towards him. Iolaus’ face was paler than pale, his skin colour a bloodless and chilled white, his lips a fragile porcelain blue. His eyes were closed, and his features relaxed; were it not for his unnatural pallor he might have simply been asleep.
Hercules drew in a slow breath, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. From above the situation had looked pretty bad. Up close it was stark horror. The son of Zeus had fought in more wars than he cared to think about and had often witnessed the carnage of the battlefield; men run through by spears, pierced by arrows, or sliced open by a sword thrust. It was part of the ugliness of war, the price that men paid for conflict, and he had never been able to accept the need for it. This was somehow worse. Not just because the wounded man was his friend - his best friend, the bright soul that had kept the light and fire in his life through all his introspective and troubled youth - but because it was so pointless.
The jutting spikes that impaled skin and muscle were not arrows or spears. They were just sharpened pieces of wood, cut and set to trap an unwary deer or a rooting pig. They were tools of butchery, not battle - and their victim hung on them like a carcass waiting for the carving knife.
Now what do I do?
His heart demanded that he just reach out and tear his friend free from the savage trap. That he use his god-given strength to lift Iolaus out of the cold and the muck - and that, having done so, he bundle him up and take him home without hesitation.
Sense told him otherwise.
For a start, while those vicious spears of wood had inflicted major damage they were also partially sealing the wounds. The bottom of a mud lined, water filled pit was no place to be re-opening such deep and penetrative injuries. For another, moving the man was going to be dangerous unless it was done with deliberate and gentle care.
But leaving him where he was wasn’t much of an option either. He’d been lying in this bitterly cold bath for hours. He was already cold to the touch - and every moment he remained would continue to leech warmth and strength from his weakened frame.
Hercules sat back on his heels and pondered the problem, his face creasing down into anxious and fearful lines. All the ideas that crossed his mind were things that would take time - and time was the one luxury he didn’t have. Unless, of course, he was willing to sit there and watch while his best friend simply slipped away from him ...
Gods!
Anger lifted his eyes skywards, although he knew he had little hope of help from that direction. He had the oddest sense that one - or more - of the immortal powers were watching him. "Father?" he called. "Father!"
There was no answer. No miraculous appearance. No change in the situation whatsoever. He hadn’t expected there to be.
"I won’t lose him," he muttered, the determination taking root in his heart. He’d lived though that loss once - in a time that never happened, that belonged to memories Hera had engineered and his father had reluctantly erased - and he had treasured every moment spent in his friend’s company ever since. He had no wish to face that aching emptiness a second time.
Not unless he were sure he’d done everything possible to prevent it.
There must be some way …
He reached down and began to grope through the thick slurry that covered the bottom of the pit. He knew Iolaus – and he knew that, if he’d been travelling beyond the Theban boundary the day before, he’d have taken his sword with him. There’d been rumours of bandits on the back roads. There always were, of course, and his friend was perfectly capable of dealing with such riff-raff without the need of a blade, but time and experience had taught them both that it was better to be safe than sorry.
So where is it?
His fingers slid across the rough lattice that lined the base of the excavation, finding and discarding stones and other debris in the course of his hurried search. He located the hunter’s pack – a battered water soaked bundle of leather – and quickly pawed through it; it held little more than a whetstone, a reel of twine, a few whittled pegs, a skein of fishing line, and a small money scrip. Even that was empty.
Nothing but hunter’s tricks, Hercules sighed and tossed the pack up out of the pit so that he could recover it later. He still hadn’t found what he was looking for and he frowned, widening his search to cover every inch of the ice cold pool. After a little more agitated groping , he located the scabbard. Just the scabbard, lying in the muck beneath the injured man’s feet.
There was no sign of the weapon at all.
Hades!
Perhaps it had been lost, somewhere in the hunter’s frenetic scramble to escape the falling tree. It could be anywhere up there, hidden in the rain soaked ferns or buried under the weight of the tree itself. And without it, the only thing left with which he might cut the well seasoned stakes would be Iolaus’s hunting knife.
So which boot does he keep it in …?
The left one was closest, and he slid his muddy fingers up the leather, looking for the tell tale shape of hardened steel outlined against the firmness of muscle. He knew the knife blade was a good one – the two of them had forged it together – but it would be a paltry tool with which to tackle the hardened wood.
What he needed most was a saw ...
"You there! Down in the pit. Show yourself at once!"
The command was firm; the voice that delivered it was not. Hercules barely glanced up, although some of the tension which had been knotting up his stomach relaxed as he realised he had company.
Thank the Fates.
"It’s just me, Croesus. I need your help."
We both do ...
"Hercules?" The old man’s voice was followed by the old man himself, his balding skull appearing over the rim of the pit as he stared down into it in puzzlement. "What ever are you doing - gods ..." The last word was delivered in a hushed breath; the woodcarver’s reaction to what awaited him was almost as shocked as Hercules’ had been. "That’s - Iolaus? What happened? Is he - ?"
"Not yet," the son of Zeus interrupted tightly. "But he will be - and soon, if we don’t act quickly. I was about to cut him free."
"Not with that you weren’t," Croesus retorted sharply, frowning at the knife that now rested in Hercules’ hand. He hunkered down at the edge of the pit, dragging the strap of his carry pack over his head and rummaging hurriedly through the contents. "Those stakes were cut from ash. You need something with a firmer bite ... here. Try this." His hand re-emerged from the depths of the bag holding a narrow bladed handsaw - the very thing, in fact, that Hercules had been wishing for.
"Perfect," he breathed, standing up to take it. The woodcarver took the knife in exchange, placing it carefully out of the way behind him.
"Be careful," he advised as he turned back, his narrow features pinched even closer by anxiety. "Hold the wood just above where you have to cut, or the vibration - "
"I know." Hercules had already dropped back to his knees, faced with a further dilemma. Where should he begin? The hunter’s weight was currently balanced across the pins that held him. Cut one and the rest might well force themselves even deeper ...
"Is there anything I can do to help?" the woodcarver was asking overhead. Hercules took a deep breath and made his decision.
"Yeah," he called as he dipped his hands into the ice cold water and groped for the bottom of the relevant stake. "Deianeira put a sheet in my pack. Make some bandages."
"Right away. Hercules?"
"Mmhuh?" He responded distractedly, his attention focused on the need to balance haste with care.
"Does he have - much of a chance?"
Hercules’ fingers clenched on the smooth surface of the stake they had begun to curl around. They clenched so tightly that the wood splintered under the pressure, and he winced. That was not the to way to go here.
Careful here, Hercules.
Just be careful ...
"He’ll make it," he stated firmly, answering the old man’s question and reaffirming his own resolve at the same time. "I know he will."
It wasn’t just dark on the other side of the gate. It was dark. He was immersed in utter pitch blackness, an absence of light so complete that closing his eyes made absolutely no difference to what he saw in front of him. Iolaus moved forward tentatively, holding his drawn sword out ahead of him and feeling for each step with a cautious foot. His left hand trailed along the cavern wall, giving him some sense of progress; the surface was smooth like polished stone - and it was cold too, the bitterness numbing bare skin and stealing all feeling from his fingers and toes.
I should never have given up my boots ...
He grimaced at the realisation. It was unlikely the old woman would want to return them, no matter how much he asked. Besides it was too late now. The light from the gate had vanished as soon as he’d walked through it. There was no turning back on this path. The stories had always been very clear on that point.
So what now?
The tales had been a little hazy on detail; the hero always descended into the darkness of Winter, and overcame any number of dangers and hazards before he reached the main event. Trials of the heart, tests of the spirit, his mother had told when he’d pressed for specifics. A poetic enough description for a tale - but not a lot of help when you needed specific instructions ...
The floor underfoot had begun to slope downwards and he moved a little more cautiously, wary of losing his balance. He was shivering, and he had to clench his jaws to keep his teeth from chattering.
Why is it so cold? he wondered, breaking contact with the wall for a moment to wipe his face. Water was still dripping from his hair and each drop hit his skin with the impact of ice. I know this is the realm of Winter, but ...
Someone touched him. A hand brushed against his cheek, its sudden warmth making him jump in startlement. He spun, the sword sweeping out in a wide arc. It met no resistance, but the warmth remained, a gentle contact that he could feel - even though, when he lifted his own hand, he could find no trace of its source. There was a sense of presence, too. A familiar one, imbued with the subtle aura of Olympus.
"Herc?" He spoke the name aloud, and it echoed through the cavernous depths that surrounded him. The touch at his cheek fell away. "Hercules!"
No answer came out of the darknesss. Only more echoes, magnifying his call over and over again.
‘cules, cules, culesleslesles ....
The hunter let the sound reverberate into silence before he recommenced his careful progress, every muscle tense and his senses on full alert. The feeling that he was no longer alone wouldn’t go away. This might be one of the tests the tales spoke about. Or it could just be his imagination working overtime.
Focus, he chided himself, aware that the pain still lurked at the edges of his awareness. At least the bitter chill was giving him something else to think about.
The slope to the floor was also becoming steeper. He edged downwards gingerly, wary in case the slope turned into a drop. It was hard to keep his footing on the slick stone and the wall offered him nothing to hold onto.
The phantom hand touched him again - this time low on his left side. Pain flared at the contact, a deep, stabbing pain that drove all the air from his lungs and locked every muscle with reactive agony.
"Haahhh," he gasped, half collapsing against the ice of the wall as the fire tore through him. "What the - ?"
All the time that you can feel it? Means you’ve still got a chance to make it back ...
Gaia’s words suddenly made utter and terrifying sense. It wasn’t just an echo of the pain he carried with him. It was the pain itself. The things he was feeling - the bitter cold, the soft scream of his wounds - they were his link to the world he had left behind. The events that affected him there had the power to reach him here. Somewhere, on a cold spring morning on a hillside on the outskirts of Thebes, his best friend had found his resting place ...
The sudden impact of distress subsided, giving him a chance to catch his breath. The sense of presence was stronger now - strong enough for him to be certain of it. He turned to rest his back against the rock wall and tipped his head back to meet the stone, smiling despite the discomfort, despite the gasping desperation of his lungs.
"Hey, Herc," he whispered warmly, knowing the man wouldn’t hear him. "Be gentle with me, willya? I’m hurting here ..." He giggled a little hysterically. There was no way Hercules could get him out of that pit without stirring pain. And no way would he leave him in it, either. "Gods!" Iolaus swore, tensing as that phantom touch caressed his wounded hand. It spasmed under the contact, his fingers splaying out in involuntary reaction. He forced the hand to curl into a fist and brought the other one in to cradle it, gritting his teeth as the inevitable flare of agony surged through him.
That was two ...
He eased himself down the wall until he was sitting on the cold stone, his sword resting in his lap. Once Hercules had cut his body free he’d be able to move on. It would probably be bad for a while - there was still the short journey to a place of safety, and then wounds to treat - but after that everything would be much easier. He’d be warmer for a start. And dry ...
Hercules drew in a sharp breath as the hand above his - which had been limp and unmoving - spasmed with reactive pain as his fingers curled around the wood. He glanced towards Iolaus’ face in alarm, but saw no change in the man’s pale and unconscious features. Relief released the tightened breath. The last thing the son of Zeus wanted was for the wounded man to wake up. Not now. Not like this.
"Take it easy, buddy," he murmured, sliding his hand back up the blood caked shaft until it was once again resting against the imprisoned palm. The spasmed fingers had relaxed after that initial jerk; they draped down over his and then - briefly - tightened almost imperceptibly. Hercules frowned.
He’s unconscious. He doesn’t even know I’m here ...
But somehow it was hard to shake the feeling that the action had been deliberate. An acknowledgement of his presence and - with it - a clear forgiveness of the damage he might have to wreak in order to preserve his friend’s life.
He’s dying, the son of Zeus reminded himself, setting back to work with determination. You can worry about the rest of it later. It only took a few moments for him to saw through each of the hardened shafts, but each of those moments were heart stopping ones. He was trying to hold each stake steady as he cut it; Croesus’ warning about vibration was well founded and there was already fresh blood in the dark water, oozing from the trapped hunter’s side. That one had only needed one cut. The rest would need two - once above the wound to cut away the excess wood, and then again below it.
Hercules freed the injured hand then set about both shoulder and thigh. It was painstaking and distressing work, not helped by the fact that it had begun to rain again; each slow drop added depth to the unwholesome soup in which he worked. His own fingers were growing numb and he was shivering.
He risked an extra moment to press his ear to a chilled chest and check for the reassurance of the heart that still beat within it. The sound was faint, the slowly laboured thump almost too quiet to catch. The fact that it was there was encouragement enough, and Hercules went back to work with renewed determination.
"Croesus?" he called, gritting his teeth as he had to force wounded flesh back up the shaft far enough for him to be able to cut it. The stake through the man’s hip was buried deep, nearly three feet of wood protruding above the wound.
"Yes?"
"Drape the long edge of my cloak over the side of the pit, will you? I think I can lift him straight into it from here."
He’d thought it was all over when the count reached five. He hadn’t stopped to consider what might happen when his freed body was moved. Iolaus had half scrambled back to his feet when unseen arms slid under his back and hips with gentle strength. Pain lanced through every fibre of his being. He fought for breath, feeling as if he were being torn apart. Damaged muscle spasmed reactively; his foot - braced to support his entire weight - jerked out, and he lost his balance.
He hit the rock floor hard, but by then he was too immersed in the inner flames to notice. The force of his fall started him sliding, and his weight carried him the rest of the way, down the polished slope without hope or chance of stopping himself. The angle increased and so did his momentum; he scrabbled desperately for a hold, then arched in agony as the pain of being lifted up was matched by the torture of being put down again.
Oh gods ...
He was falling.
Pursuing a bone jarring descent into total darkness.
Hurtling towards the unknown with ever increasing speed.
Consumed by a savage, and unbearable torment.
Too lost in the experience to do anything more than scream ...
Alcmene was contemplating her garden when her visitor arrived. It was not a happy contemplation. Normally the spring flowers would have started to show by now, eager bulbs pushing their way through the earth and the first sprinkling of green painting bare branches with the tantalising hint of the glory to come.
Not a fleck of green flourished anywhere. Even the grass was a limp and bedraggled brown rather than the deep emerald of its usual winter coat. The few evergreens that lined the edges of her cultivation drooped unhealthy dark leaves over the empty beds - and the birds that ought to be busy squabbling over nesting material were hopping listlessly around the place, poking for the last of the worms or skritting up the seeds that lay lifelessly beneath the surface soil.
"Looks a little worse for wear, doesn’t it?"
The voice made her jump. He always did that. Sometimes she believed he did it on purpose, a not so subtle way of reminding her who and what he was. Most of the time though, she accepted it as part of the package; the King of the Gods liked to make entrances. And did.
On regular occasions.
"Hello, Zeus," she acknowledged without turning round. She dipped down instead, fastidiously picking up a few damp and leathery leaves from where they’d fallen among her herb bed. She ought to be weeding, but not even the weeds seemed to have any strength to flourish. "Is this an official visit, or just a passing fancy?"
She smiled to herself as she asked the question. She liked to disconcert him - return payment for the deceit he had woven around her all those years ago. He thought that turning up, acknowledging the matter - and officially claiming his son in that round about, oh, there was just something manner - had been enough to clear the slate and make every thing all right between them. He’d been a little startled when she told him she knew, thank you very much, and had thereafter treated him with the same no nonsense courtesy that she did any other relative or friend of the family. He was Hercules’ father after all, and she liked him - in a roundabout, hard to put your finger on kind of way.
Funny how things work out sometimes, she considered, moving down the line of her flower beds to tie back the vines that had been brought down by the previous night’s storm. If that young man hadn’t told me first ...
Her life had been full of wonder and miracles ever since that peculiar day when a stranger had saved her life and told her she was carrying the son of a god. He’d been so passionate about it. And right. Every word, right. Predicting the fortune of her unborn son. Insisting on his importance to the world - and to him. It had been years ago, but she had never forgotten.
"A little of both," Zeus admitted thoughtfully. His tone was what made her turn; she’d never heard him sound so - pensive before. "You don’t want to worry about the garden, my dear. All that’s been taken care of."
I hope, she read under his blithe words.
"Taken care of?" she questioned, studying him suspiciously. He was wearing his elder statesman guise, the whole avuncular patriarch look that conveyed the usual rumpled dignity. It didn’t fool her the way it did her son. She’d seen him in other guises - and she knew how much of an act most of this was. He shrugged.
"A little deal I made. Just to tide us over while - things get worked out. Between us," he added, his casual gesture managing to encompass the entire Olympic pantheon without difficulty. Her eyes narrowed with shrewd suspicion. You didn’t manage to raise two headstrong sons - three, she reminded herself with an inner smile - without learning how to read between the lines.
"A deal," she noted, turning back to the vines. "Since when has the Lord of Olympus needed to make a deal to bring back the spring?"
She meant it as a joke. His answer froze all the blood in her veins.
"Since Gaia demanded one of your sons as her rightful sacrifice."
The vine beneath her hands slipped out of the loop she was tying and plunged back to the rain soaked soil. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breath.
My sons?
Chosen ...
A whole variety of emotions chased around her heart. Disbelief. Wonder. Pride.
And fear.
Mostly it was the fear ...
"It’s all right," Zeus assured her, moving across to place his hands on her shaking shoulders. "They’re both safe. I made sure of that. She wanted Hercules, of course, but - I wouldn’t go for that. And then, I couldn’t possibly let her take Iphicles instead. That wouldn’t have been fair to you. I know how much they both mean to you."
"You know ..." She turned towards him, her eyes demanding, a hollow clench of dread settling in her stomach. You didn’t refuse the sacrifice. Nobody refused the sacrifice.
No wonder the spring is so late in coming ...
Her mother’s mother had taught her the ritual, just as her mother’s mother had taught her. Just in case it was ever needed. A long time ago it had been conducted every year. Then every seven. Then only when the goddess demanded it. She hadn’t demanded it in several generations.
But it was only a matter of time ...
"Well, of course I do," Zeus was saying warmly. "A mother loves her sons. I wouldn’t ask you to give up either of them."
"So you made a deal. With - Gaia." Alcmene wrestled with the concept, still inwardly reeling with the revelation behind his words. My son. The Summer King. It was apt. It was appropriate. And it was inevitable. She should have seen it in him a long time ago.
"I am the King of the gods," he smiled. "She wasn’t entirely happy but - we agreed a compromise."
"You sent someone in his place." It was an accusation, not a statement. The knot in her stomach would not relax despite the sense of relief that was beginning to dawn in her heart. Her sons were safe. The burden of the year had been lifted from both their shoulders and neither would be called upon to walk the inner paths and offer their lives for the land.
But someone’s son will have to ...
It was for that soul that the fear remained. A stranger, sent in her child’s place, to walk a path for which he would be utterly unprepared. Why would Gaia accept such a gift, when the choice of the chosen was so clear?
"Well - yes," Zeus admitted, turning to study the state of the house as if the rest of the conversation wasn’t going to be important. "Someone had to go. She insisted. People have been complaining you know. About the harsh winters and the poor harvests. If they have nothing else to complain about, mortals complain about the weather. Now, I like a little bad weather now and then. Livens things up." He sighed, the sound of a god with the whole world to worry about. "That business with Prometheus didn’t help matters much. Folk wouldn’t have minded losing a little thing like fire if the weather had been good, now would they? They’d have gone back to living on fruit and honey and things. But - oh, no - lose it in the depths of Winter and everyone notices. Then the winters started getting longer, and the summers worse and worse ... Demeter’s been doing her best but - well, I told Gaia she’d have to get her act together and she said she couldn’t unless she got her rightful due. But like I said," he concluded, turning back to her with an indulgent smile. "Your sons are safe. So there’s no need for you to worry."
There probably wasn’t. Alcmene just couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had seized hold of her.
"There aren’t that many heroes in Greece," she pointed out. "And half of them have your blood in them somewhere. Who did you chose? A king? A famous general? A warrior? They’re still fighting at Troy, aren’t they? Did someone die on the battlefield yesterday?"
He shook his head, a quick and hastily delivered denial.
"Uhuh. Battlefields are Ares and Athena’s domain, not mine. Blood spilt in anger wouldn’t be eligible anyway. It has to be a sacrifice." He shrugged. "I don’t get it, but - that’s the way it works."
"So who?" she insisted. He looked vaguely uncomfortable and the knot tightened a little further. "An athlete perhaps?" He shook his head again and the fear began to take terrifying shape. "An Argonaut," she breathed, watching his face and hoping that she was wrong. She wasn’t. "You sent one of the other Argonauts in Hercules’ place, didn’t you. Didn’t you? Picked one of his old comrades to die." His expression betrayed the truth and sorrow washed through her. Only the chosen one has a chance to return ... Didn’t he know that? "How did you do it, mmm? Drop a masthead on them?"
He winced.
"An oak tree," he admitted. Her jaw dropped open.
An oak tree?
Oh, that was just wonderful. Pay lip service to the demands of the ritual - despite cheating on the choice of central player. He was a god wasn’t he? Didn’t he understand how important some of these details were?
She heaved a sigh and turned away from him, staring into the empty branches of her apple tree. Maybe he did. Maybe he’d tried to make it work as best he could. He was protecting his son after all. "Was it - quick?"
She heard him heave a sigh of his own. "Of course it wasn’t," he snapped a little impatiently. "I know how it works, Alcmene. If the chosen one dies on the first day you only get one good summer out of him. If it’s the second - "
"Three," she interjected softly, still staring into the stark branches. "Two days buy three years."
And if he lives through the third, the Summer King’s reign lasts for seven years ...
Her lips quirked in a humourless smile.
That’s if he lives of course.
"Exactly. One for one, two for three, three for seven - it’s all standard stuff."
"And the rest of it?" Alcmene demanded softly, a single tear rolling down her cheek. A man was dying to save her sons. The least she could was mourn him. "Does he have a brother? Is he one of two, two who are closer than one ..."
The knot tightened with a savage jerk. Her lungs laboured for air. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t ....
Iolaus, her lips said, her voice refusing to add weight to the word. She spun, staring at the Lord of Olympus with total horror written on her face. "He does, doesn’t he?"
He nodded, his expression settling into apologetic lines. "Yes. He does." The apology collapsed into harried frustration. "Look - I didn’t have a lot of choice. I was running out of time, I needed someone Gaia would accept, I wanted to give whoever I chose a chance - "
"A chance? " she exploded in disbelieving fury. "What kind of chance? This isn’t a game, Zeus. This is a man’s life we’re talking about. No - more than that. This is his soul that’s on the line. The hero that fails on the summer quest will never see the Elysian fields. Those that cannot claim the crown are claimed by it instead. That might not mean much to you but - it’s the whole point of this business. You told me my sons were safe. You lied to me."
"No," he denied. "I - "
"You lied," she repeated angrily. "Tell me you chose Leodatus, Castor, Phalerus - even Jason. Tell me. You can’t. You can’t because it wouldn’t be true."
Zeus grimaced at the ground, unwilling to meet the fury in her eyes. "Iolaus has a good heart," he muttered. "He’s stubborn too - "
"Oh, sweet mother," Alcmene swore, considering him with equal amounts of anger and frustration. "Don’t you ever think things through where Hercules is concerned? You know how much Iolaus means to him. What’s he going to say - what’s he going to do - if he ever finds out you were responsible for his best friend’s death? Did you think about that, all the time you were trying to protect him? You sit up there on that mountain and you make your decisions and then you come down here and just - expect everything to work out as you planned. You might as well have dropped that oak tree on him, because he will never forgive you for this. Never.
"And neither will I."
"Alcmene, I - "
"Don’t," she interrupted tightly. "Don’t say one word. I love my sons very much, Zeus. All of my sons. The two I have carried inside me - and the one I have carried in my heart since the day I first laid eyes on him. That boy has endured more sorrow in his life these past years than any man has a right to bear. And you know what’s the worst thing about it? If you’d asked - just asked - he’d have probably volunteered to take Hercules’ place."
I owe everything I am to him ...
Words whispered to her across time, across space, delivered with earnest conviction and a sense of love and brotherhood so deep it had taken her breath away. Had she known who he would turn out to be, that day a tousle headed urchin with his infuriating smile had arrived in her life like a whirlwind? Maybe not that day - or the next - but she’d watched him grow into a man and watching had come to understand the miracle she had witnessed, all those years before.
One of two, two who are closer than one ...
Their lives were so closely tangled together that she’d sometimes wondered if the Fates could tell whose thread was which.
They knew now.
"Where is he?" Alcmene demanded softly. Her voice was brittle, like glass. Zeus heaved a sorrowed sigh.
"Hercules found his - body - a little while ago. He’s taking it home right now. But he’s with Gaia. Walking the dark path, I should think. He does have a chance, Alcmene. I’m sure of it ."
He’d felt as if he would fall forever.
He didn’t remember hitting bottom. He didn’t remember hitting anything.
But he’d arrived all the same.
Where, Iolaus didn’t know - except that it wasn’t in the ice cold, pitch dark passage that had been the serpent’s gullet. There was light - of a sort. A stark, phosphorescent light. He sat up - cautiously - and studied his surroundings with a wary eye.
He was sitting in what looked like a natural grotto, one in which the interior decorator had got a little carried away. Sheets of rippled limestone dripped down from the ceiling like ruffled curtains. Elaborate, contorted pillars rose from the floor, some reaching as high as the roof, some barely tall enough to be called a pedestal, and the rest ranging through all the heights in between.
A series of shallow steps descended in front of him, leading down into the depths of the cave. They curved around a number of shallow pools, the water in them glistening and gleaming as if they were lined with silver. In fact, he realised, practically the whole cavern glistened like that, the surface of the stone below him slick and running with moisture.
"Oh great," he breathed. "More cold water. This, I could do without."
He seemed to have arrived in the only dry spot in the place; a heap of glimmering sand that shifted beneath him as he moved. His sword had landed in it point down and the hilt was still quivering slightly. So, now he thought about it, was he - an odd, barely perceptible sensation. He closed his eyes and concentrated; as far as he could tell, the discomfort had subsided back to a dull, underlying ache ...
A jolt shot though him, jerking his eyes open and catching the breath in his throat. "Ow," he protested, reflexively reaching for the point of pain in his side. "What the ...? Oh," he breathed, comprehension catching up with him. "Thanks a heap, Herc. Drag me home, why dontya?"
It wasn’t a serious complaint. He was well aware that his friend would be doing the best he could for him in the circumstance. Better than the best: he still felt cold, but the numbing bite of ice was no longer eating into his bones. His clothes and hair were only damp, not dripping, and his wounds, when he looked, were caking over, the blood no longer running as freely as it had before.
"Way to go," he grinned, grabbing the sword hilt and using the support of the blade to get to his feet. It looked like his partner had everything in hand back in the mortal world, and he had a quest to complete in this one.
Hercules was decidedly grateful for Croesus’s help. The old man had not only prepared a bundle of bandages, but had begun work on the torn tree limb, lashing cross branches across the Y shaped fork and layering bundles of mistletoe over them to provide a makeshift padding. He went on adding layers as the son of Zeus went to work with the torn linen, gently cushioning the still pierced wounds as best he could. The pale green gold leaves were the closest fresh vegetation the wood carver had been able to find; the trees held nothing but stark branches and the sparse ferns and bracken that made up the undergrowth were heavy with water. Hercules shuddered a little as he caught sight of the result; it looked far too much like a funeral bier for comfort.
"Fit for a king," Croesus announced, trying to make the words a joke and failing miserably. He was right, though. Gathered up like that, the mistletoe formed a golden couch, one more than suitable for some ancient forest king. A lord of the golden age perhaps, one of the kings that Chronos ruled, in the days before Zeus was born. Wasn’t the oak sacred to Rhea, Chronos’ wife and sister?
The thought made Hercules pause. Rhea was his grandmother. And her mother was Gaia herself, the mother of the entire world ...
He shivered and got to his feet, annoyed that he’d let his mind stray like that. He had more important things to worry about.
"It’ll do," he decided. "Thanks, Croesus."
The woodcarver shrugged awkwardly. "Least I could do. I never meant - I never even thought ... I’ll fill these pits in, Hercules. I swear I will."
It was a little late for that, but Hercules appreciated the thought. "First things first," he said. "Let’s get Iolaus home, shall we?"
The old man’s eyes darted up the line of the hill and the son of Zeus quirked a grim smile.
"My home," he clarified firmly. "It’s downhill all the way - and Deianeira is skilled in healing. Besides," he added, turning to carefully lift the injured man into his arms for a second time. "Too many people have died in that house already."
Croesus scurried round to pick up the bear skin and hastily throw it over the top of his handiwork. Then he added one of the blankets and helped Hercules lower his burden into the resultant nest. "It isn’t right, is it?" the woodcarver observed grimly. "That lovely young wife of his, taken before her time. The child, too. And now this. You’d think the gods had cursed him, wouldn’t you?"
Is that it?
Hercules wondered as he gently tucked the last blanket around chilled limbs and checked that everything was as secure as it could be.
Have the gods laid a curse on him?
He’s done nothing to upset any of them. Not that badly.
Just be my friend ...
It was a worrying thought and it nagged at him as he seized the rough poles of the makeshift travois and began the careful walk home. Was he the reason that so much ill-fortune had befallen his friend these past years? Subtle curses weren’t exactly Hera’s style. If she were behind all of this then she’d have made a point of gloating over it.
Wouldn’t she?
He had no way of knowing why the Fates had woven history as they had. Why Ania had to die, or why Anacles should follow her barely three years later. But he couldn’t help feeling - as he measured out each of his steps and winced at every bump or dip - that this time, it was all his fault.
"Help me ..."
The voice was unexpected. Iolaus whirled into a wary crouch, trying to pinpoint where it had come from. Nothing moved in among the glistening spires and the pools between them were mirror still, their surfaces reflecting only the images of sculptured rock.
"Please. Help me ..."
It was a soft plea, delivered in tones of pain. He cautiously stalked down another line of water slicked ledges, his bare feet splashing up silver light as he did so. The water was full of it - some kind of phosphorescent algae that clung to the surface of the rock and filled the cavern with an unearthly illumination.
"Where are you?" he demanded, still seeing nothing but the crystalline spires and the shimmer of the tiny silver waterfalls. "Who are you?"
"I don’t - remember. Help me ..."
The words rose and fell as if forming them took great effort. Iolaus paced on a little further, heading down towards the lowest level of the cave. The water had formed a wide pool there, a silvered floor that suggested depth - although that might be the illusion of the sculptured roof that arched above it.
In another time - and another place - Iolaus would probably have been admiring the scenery, marveling at the way the slow deposit of limestone had shaped so many half familiar images amidst so much beauty. There were crystal trees, their branches hung with icicles of stone. Curved couches, made for Titans. Hints of monsters lurked within the rock. There, the curving neck of a Hydra. There the outstretched wing of a dragon. Grotesque harpies squabbled over possession of a tiny pool. Serpents crawled in and out of giant’s skulls - and overhead there grew an entire upside down forest, a profusion of crystal spears, dripping light.
What is this place? he wondered as he walked, his hand tight on the sword hilt, his every sense alert for danger.
"Please ..." The voice came again. Closer now.
"Where are you?" he asked again. He’d nearly reached the edge of the central lake and he could see the way out, waiting on the other side. It had to be the way out; there was a dark archway cut into the far cavern wall, and it stood out among the silver frosted landscape like a gaping mouth. A narrow stream ran into it, fed by a runoff from the lake, but he was too far way to see if the light it offered revealed any further details of his path.
"By the lake," the voice breathed, with a sigh that sounded like utter exhaustion. "Don’t look ..."
Don’t look?
The instruction made no sense at all. If the man wanted help then he had to find him. And to find him, he had to look. Didn’t he?
The last step took him to the lakeside; the mirrored surface so still it was like a sheet of pure metal. He glanced up, identifying the convoluted patterns of the ceiling and then, out of sheer curiosity, down, trying to pick out the same shapes reflected by the water.
Looking down into the lake.
Time - stood still.
There was no such thing as time.
It was just an illusion. Just a misconception of the way things were.
All things happened at once.
Nothing ever happened at all.
Past, present, future - everything was one thing and that was eternal. Why bother to strive. Why bother to live?
When all that effort just took you nowhere ...
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