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Bound by His Brother's Heart Part Four: Pythia |
"Another wet day," Alcmene observed with forced cheerfulness as Deianeira opened the door to let her into the house. Two squirming boys barely paused to hug her as they raced past, their minds clearly set on who was going to win the inevitable foot race to the barn. "Is it never going to stop raining?"
It sounded like a rhetorical question and her daughter-in-law merely smiled in acknowledgement as she helped the older woman to doff her cloak, but voicing the query had lifted a lump to the speaker’s throat and she had to swallow hard before she could get rid of it.
The spring rain, it was said, were Gaia’s tears: tears shed with both grief and joy as she accepted the gift that was her rightful due. As the blood of the chosen one renewed the earth so the tears that marked his sacrifice awakened the life than lay dormant within it.
Just as Alcmene had lain awake all night listening to the rain and weeping tears of her own.
He’s a good man, Gaia, she had prayed, hoping against all hope that one mother might listen to the fears of another. One more than worthy of you. Guide him. Guard him. Send him home to us ...
A foolish, fruitless prayer. Not even Gaia could dictate the outcome of the dangerous journey that faced the proffered sacrifice. It was his will and spirit alone that would determine whether or not he survived its perils - and only the faith and love that bound him to his sacred brother’s heart could serve to call him home once the Summer crown was won.
If it’s won.
That was the fear that had kept her from her sleep. The road beneath the tree was meant to be a demanding one even for those trained from birth and well prepared to walk its hidden paths. How could a man win through, when he’d been sent into the earth without choice or warning, unprepared and probably ignorant of the dangers he was about to face?
And how would her beloved son react, if he discovered the truth of that? That his own father had sent his best friend on a journey he’d been destined to take. One from which that friend might never return.
It will devastate him.
No matter how desperate or necessary the sacrifice, Hercules would never understand - never forgive - the need to risk, not just Iolaus’s life, but his very soul.
Nor would she.
Her fear had given way to anger, there in the dark. She’d cursed the patterns of the world, the weavings of the Fates, and the very gods themselves. True, it was a hot headed, stubborn and experienced warrior Zeus had chosen to send in place of his son - but to her he was still the tousle headed child who had stolen her heart along with those freshly baked cakes she’d once set on her step to cool ...
She had wept for him, recalling the memories of his life that had brought so much light to her own. The many scrapes he and Hercules had survived when they were young. The way his arrival had never failed to lift her introspective child out of his adolescent gloom. His confident promise the day the two of them had left to seek adventure aboard the Argo - and the exuberant grin he’d worn the day they’d returned home. The look on his face the day Ania had agreed to be his wife - and his hopeless struggle between grief and joy when her death had presented him with a son.
And the oldest memory, the one she cherished even though she had no understanding of how it could have ever happened.
The memory of the determined hero who’d faced up to an angry goddess in order to save both her and her unborn child.
Oh, Iolaus. Iolaus ...
When the morning finally came she had risen from her bed and walked out into the garden, not caring about the cold rain that sluiced down around her shoulders. It had mingled with the tears on her cheeks and washed some of the pain from her heart. He would want her to be strong. His thoughts would be with the man his unwitting sacrifice had saved - and she knew that, if there was a way, not even the combined powers of every god and demon that stalked the earth could keep him from his sword brother’s side ...
"You’re soaked through," Deianeira was chiding softly, bringing over a soft woolen himation to lay around her shoulders. "You can’t go in there like that. Hercules has enough to worry about. Come on. Sit by the fire with Ilea for a minute. Let me get you something warm to drink."
"I’m okay," Alcmene insisted, catching at the younger woman’s wrist before she bustled off to do as she threatened. "A little rain never hurt anyone. How’s - ?"
"Iolaus?" Deianeira completed with a brightness as forced as her’s had been only a moment earlier. "Well - Hercules tells me he was a - little feverish in the night, but - "
"Fever?" A hand clench around Alcmene’s heart. "Are the wounds infected? Did he wake?"
"No, and no," Hercules announced, appearing in the main room with a shallow bowl in his hands and the weight of centuries on his shoulders. "The fever’s not so fierce now, but he’s restless with it." His eyes flicked down to the bowl in his hands. "I need fresh water - "
"Let me get that," his wife offered, a hint of patient exasperation in her tone. "Hercules - now Alcmene’s here why don’t you get some sleep? We can watch Iolaus for a while." She tugged the bowl from his hands and he gave an anxious look: one that faded into a weary smile.
"No. It’s - okay. I - "
"Have work to do," Alcmene announced firmly. "I saw the state of your roof as I walked up just now. If you don’t get up there and fix that corner thatch you won’t have a roof over your head by this evening." She fixed her son with a steely eye and his instinctive protest withered at her look. "I know it’s raining," she went on to say. "But that’s all the more reason to tackle it now. I’m surprised there aren’t pools of water all over this house already."
As if on cue, a loud tock resounded through the room, the result of a drop of water hitting a pan strategically placed to catch the worst offending leak. Ilea, safely ensconced by the warmth of the main hearth, giggled at the sound. Her father sighed. "Iolaus was going to help me with that ..." he breathed, then grimaced and glanced apologetically at his wife.
"I wasn’t going to say anything," Deianeira admitted ruefully. "But mother’s right. It won’t wait. Look - " she suggested with a sympathetic smile, "you go freshen up, get yourself a bite to eat and then - at least try patching the worst of it."
"But - " he tried, turning his head to glance over his shoulder at the room he had just left.
"You’ll only be on the roof," Alcmene assured him, tugging at his arm to move him in the relevant direction. "We’ll call if you’re needed down here. Run along," she added, motioning him into action with a determined gesture of her fingers. He sighed a second time, but nodded and headed for the kitchen with reluctant steps.
"How do you do it?" Deianeira asked with an admiring look. "I didn’t think he’d leave that room even if the house was on fire."
"That was going to be my next ploy," her mother-in-law confided with a wry grin. "Motherly magic, I guess. Use the power wisely, child."
Deianeira laughed, then brought her hand to her mouth to stifle the reaction with contrition. "I shouldn’t laugh," she realised anxiously. "It wouldn’t be right - "
"Of course it’s right," Alcmene corrected determinedly. "You think Iolaus would want us moping about like a pair of miseries? Grieving for him before he’s dead? Of course not. Laugh if you want to. The children too. Let him hear it."
It may be the last time ...
Alcmene shook the thought from her head and reached to lift the curtain, ready to resume her own vigil at the injured man’s side. Her nose wrinkled immediately and the look she threw her companion spoke volumes. "Clean linen?" she asked hopefully. "Fresh bandages?"
"I’m on it," Deianeira announced, turning in search of the requested items. "I’ll bring some incense too ..."
Jasmine, I hope, Alcmene sighed, stepping into the room and studying the man it held with anxious affection. Frankincense would clear the air better. But it was a winter scent, and as such ill suited to aid the quest that the hunter currently followed.
He was, as Hercules had said, restless.
Not the agitated restlessness commonly associated with fever - one filled with violent motion and muttered delirium. This was a muted, uneasy disturbance: Iolaus twitched and shivered, his mouth working without sound and the sweat beading his brow like bright jewels set in an invisible crown.
"Oh, Iolaus," Alcmene breathed, her heart - which she had so carefully armoured for this very moment - breaking at the sight. He looked so pale. So fragile. "Don’t give up" she whispered, sinking into the seat beside him and reaching for his uninjured hand. "Find the way. Please ..."
The descent seemed interminable.
Iolaus inched his way down, testing every root, every strand and even then wincing as he trusted his weight to the next suspect foothold. Not all of them were anchored. Some simply fell away as he touched them, forcing him to scrabble for another hold. Some gave out after he’d trusted their support and then he would slide downwards with a curse, the rough surfaces shredding his palms as they whipped through his clenched hands. One such incident left him hanging, the fall dropping him over thirty feet as the root beneath his hands peeled away from the cliff.
"Gods," he swore, his heart pounding and his battered body protesting the savage jerk and thump with which he’d finally managed to halt his precipitate plummet. "Why wasn’t I born with wings?"
The rock wall, into whose unforgiving surface he had slammed before he could prevent it, was laced with slender and unsupportive roots. There was nothing below him but darkness: he would have to climb up before he could find a place that let him climb down again. Halfway up he had a thought - one probably inspired by his fever and the sheer tedium of his climb.
"Iolaus," he told himself severely, "you must be crazy."
All the same ...
Unlike his trek through the endless tunnels he now had some measure of his progress: he could look up to identify how far above him the curving waterfall began. The crimson ribbon of light now arched a good hundred feet or more over his head. Below he could make out the dim outline of the lake into which it poured. Another two, or three hundred feet beneath him. Far too far to fall.
At least in one go.
He anchored his feet in a loop of gnarled roots and reached back to haul up the length that had sent him on his sudden plunge. It was a good, thick rope, made up of a number of roots all twisted and knotted together, and a strong tug demonstrated how firmly it was tethered above him. "Yeah," he decided, grinning a little at the sheer recklessness of his scheme. "This could work."
And you could kill yourself trying it, a rational part of his mind pointed out a little sarcastically. The ‘my best friend’ part of his mind; he could hear the words as clearly as if Hercules had spoken them. See him too, favouring him with a patient did you just suggest what I thought you did? kind of look on his face.
"Come on, Herc," he muttered, quickly measuring out twenty arms length of his makeshift rope before looping the loose end over another nearby bundle. "I’m tired and I’m hurting, okay? When I get to the bottom I can rest for a while. Just a short while," he added, conscious that that probably wasn’t a good idea. "This is the quickest way down."
You mean apart from falling?
Iolaus laughed. "Apart from that," he agreed and grinned, .
I must be tireder than I thought.
Light headed too. For one thing, he was talking to himself. And for another -
You really want to do this?
You are crazy ...
He wrapped the doubled rope twice around his gauntled forearm and deliberately stepped off the network of tangled stems, leaning back so that he could plant both feet firmly against the rock wall. His arm screamed a sudden protest of pain and he cursed softly, pulling himself forward to take some of the weight off his damaged shoulder. A moment’s pause for breath - and then he was stepping down the wall in long bouncing steps, paying out the rope with one hand while controlling its tension with the other. Fifteen such steps took him to the end of the measured length and down at least twenty feet. He wasn’t particularly bothered that it was the same twenty feet up which he’d just climbed; this time he had control of his descent and a far better idea of his destination.
Left - or right? he wondered, turning his head in both directions to check out the possibilities. Right was better illuminated - it lay beneath the arch of the falling water - but the rock was only sparsely covered and the roots there looked a little flimsy. Left looked more promising. Okay.
Another pause for breath. A moment to refocus his concentration and banish the nagging presence of pain to the back of his mind. A few studied paces directly to his right to give him a little momentum ...
He let go of the loose end and ran to his left, paying out the rope as he traveled so that he swung down in a long controlled arc, picking up speed as he went.
"Wwahh hoo!"
At the end of the length he jumped, throwing himself sideways instead of down, reaching out with both hands and scrabbling for a hold in the ragged tangle of roots as they slid past. He slipped a frightening distance, but finally succeeded in bringing himself to a breathless and shaking halt.
"Phhewee," he gasped, clinging to his new anchorage and feeling his heart pound its way through his chest. "Iolaus? Don’t do that again ..."
The maneuver had proved remarkably successful. He was now a good hundred feet lower than he’d been before and he’d covered the distance in a few short minutes rather than the hour it might have taken him otherwise. But the exertion had cost him dearly; his wounded hip and shoulder were white hot points of agony and there was a protesting spasm in his injured side that was making it almost impossible to breath.
He had to wait for what seemed an eternity before the world stopped spinning around him and he could recommence his careful, downward climb.
Hercules reached for his hammer, stretching back across the thatch while he kept the restraining tie taut with his other hand. There was water dripping down his face; cold water, made up of the numerous droplets of rain that had gathered in his hair until they were heavy enough to slide out of his soaked locks. It was no longer raining heavily, but the air was filled with a fine drizzle that penetrated everything with persistent misery. The old thatch had grown dry and brittle over the six years since he’d first put it up; the rain had slicked it with a slimy film of moisture that became sodden wells where wind and weather had combined to pierce holes in the roof’s otherwise solid construction. Some of the original ties had rotted through. In other places birds had pecked away at the layers, either stealing the long reeds for nesting material or else choosing to nest in the roof itself. This last long winter had eaten away at the once solid and cosy covering he had built to protect his family; now it was a shabby, disheveled affair through which the rain dripped and the wind whistled with casual indifference.
This was neither the time nor the right weather to really address the problem. All Hercules could do for now was patch the worst of the holes as best he could. Most of them had been exacerbated by the fury of the thunderstorm two nights before. The sense of delighted excitement which he and his family had shared while the storm raged around the safe haven of their house seemed bitterly ironic in hindsight; the weather had been bad enough to batter the roof of their sanctuary into bedraggled tatters - and while it had done so, the man that roof now sheltered had been lying, broken and bleeding in the full fury of the storm.
If only I’d known ...
The thought haunted him as he worked. It had only been a week before that the two of them had stood - just conversationally, as they sometimes did - staring up at this same roof, contemplating the work it was going to need when the better weather came.
I’ll give you a hand with that, Iolaus had offered and Hercules recalled giving him an astonished look. The hunter never volunteered for hard work, although equally he never shirked it when it was asked of him. Complained perhaps, but never shirked; for all his bantering grumbles and preference for the lazy life the man never failed to contribute his best when it was needed of him.
You sure? had been the suspicious query and his friend had laughed.
Yeah. Then you’ll have no excuse when I need a hand with mine. Besides, he’d added, trying to make light of the issue, it’ll give me a break from the forge. Get me out of the house. You know.
And Hercules - who did know, but had momentarily let the memory slip - had nodded sagely and asked no more questions.
You’d think the gods had cursed him, Croesus had said. Perhaps the old man had been right ...
"No," Hercules muttered, hitting the next wooden peg with far more force than was necessary and splintering the end of it into useless sawdust. "I won’t believe that. I can’t."
"Can’t what?" his father’s voice asked with quiet curiosity. The hammer missed the second blow as its wielder jumped at the unexpected interpolation. Hercules looked up to find the Lord of Olympus sitting on the ridge of the roof, his robes fluttering a little in the wind. "You look like you need a hand."
"Don’t you dare," was the immediate rejoinder, halting the lazy lift of a god’s hand as it moved to offer beneficence and probably repair the roof at the same time. "I’ll fix my own leaks, thank you very much. Particularly since it was your storm that caused them."
Zeus shrugged. "I’d have thought that was reason for me to help, but - have it your own way, son. There’s a hole over there you’ve missed."
"I’ll get to it." Hercules tucked the hammer against a bundle of reeds and scrambled up to where his father sat, twisting round to sit beside him so that they were both staring out into the valley. The sound of boyish laughter and the bleat of a protesting goat drifted up from the yard below. A moment later Clonis came into view, tugging on a rope that encircled the neck of the very reluctant animal he was attempting to lead out of the rain and into the barn. His brother followed, pushing the creature from behind; they were both howling with laughter at the skittish creature who really didn’t want to go where it was being lead. Father and grandfather were both distracted by the spectacle; they sat and watched in attentive silence as the youngsters won their battle and dragged the obstinate goat into the shelter of the barn. Hercules finally leant back once the barn door swung shut, reaching up a weary hand to slick back his rain sodden locks; he was unable to help the weary sigh that escaped his lips. Zeus gave him a thoughtful look.
"You sound tired."
"I am tired," The response was a terse one. "And I know perfectly well you know why, so don’t look at me like that. I called you yesterday. You didn’t come."
The lord of Olympus shrugged. "I was - busy. I can’t be everywhere at once, you know. I’m - sorry - about your friend."
Hercules sighed a second time, rubbing his hand across weary eyes. "Yeah," he breathed a little cynically. "Well, you should watch where you’re throwing your thunderbolts. Sometimes people get hurt."
"Sometimes that can’t be avoided," Zeus noted, breathing a small sigh of his own. "I don’t make the rules, son. You know that."
"Rules!" Hercules snorted, throwing his father a disbelieving frown. "Since when have you cared that much about rules? You and the rest of the gods are always interfering with things. Like my life? Huh?"
Regal brows knotted with brief irritation. "You’re my son. I’m allowed a little indulgence where you’re concerned. And believe it not, the rest of the family do obey the rules. Most of the time. They’re just not - rules - mortals understand."
"Understand?" The accusation was heated. "No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why Hera has to plague this world with monsters and sorcery and suffering. I don’t understand why you let her do it. And I don’t understand why my best friend is lying down there like a - a sacrificial victim, offered up without point or purpose." He was too angry to catch the small wince that chased across his company’s features. He’d already turned to stare out at the gray clad world, wrestling with the fury that had boiled up in his heart. It wasn’t really directed at his father. It was just anger - anger at his own helplessness, at the pattern of the fates, and the comprehension that there were rules, and that, because of them, the god that now sat beside him would be unable to gift him with the miracle he wanted most. He asked for it anyway, needing to hear, not just the refusal, but the reasons that would be woven around it. "You want to show me a little indulgence?" He turned back to stare challengingly at the Lord of Olympus. "You gave him back to me once. Do it again."
The look that met the challenge was quietly sympathetic. "I can’t. Not this time. Hercules," Zeus said patiently, "I told you before. Time is a tricky thing to play with and you can’t go on turning it back every time something happens that you don’t like. There are always - repercussions. I warned you - you insisted, and - well, that time it was possible. This time it isn’t. So don’t ask me again." He held up his hand to halt the threatened interruption. "Iolaus isn’t dead yet, so don’t give up on him. Don’t you ever give up on him. He wouldn’t give up on you, you know."
"I know." Hercules had had the answer he’d been expecting. The anger drained out of him, to be replaced with a quiet despair. "It just seems - so unfair."
"Life isn’t fair," Zeus observed matter-of-factly. "But - then, the Fates only weave the pattern. They don’t judge the result."
His son frowned at him. "That pattern isn’t set," he said tightly. "The Fates may lay the warp, but I know we’re the ones who choose a path through it. Who make that path. Our futures are always of our own choosing."
"Huh," the god reacted with a wry smile. "Shows how much you know. Oh," he mollified, raising a hand to halt the threatened retort, "You’re right - in a way. But the future is dependant on a lot of things. It follows a road cut by the present and dictated by the past. Your choices may allow you to decide which side of that road you walk - but it’s still down that same road, no matter what you do. Unless," he added with a knowing grin, "your name happens to be Hercules, huh?"
"What’s that supposed to mean?" Hercules questioned suspiciously.
Zeus chuckled. "Well," he allowed, "there are some people that act as focal points for Fate. Time isn’t really a road, you know. It’s more like a flood, surging down a steep hill and carrying everyone and everything in its path. Floods can be diverted. Their course altered. They keep rushing downwards, of course, but along a different route."
"So the future can be changed?"
The Lord of Olympus sighed. "Sometimes. But changing things has consequences. Like the woman who dies giving birth to a son who was never meant to be conceived. Or the child who succumbs to a poison he was never meant to endure because he was never meant to be born ... Consequences, son. You make your choices - but you have to live with the outcomes."
Hercules stared at his father. Stared at him, a cold hollow feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "No," he breathed with quiet horror. "Don’t tell me that. Don’t tell me I killed his wife and son ..."
"Did I say that?" Zeus queried mildly, raising a paternal eyebrow. "Did I? Son - you gave him those things, not took them away from him. He was dead, remember? Standing on the road to Elysium complaining that he was meant to be getting married and worrying how about you were going to survive without him. Just as well you and I brought him back, you know - he’d have driven Hades crazy down there."
"He may still have that chance," Hercules muttered bleakly. His father’s words had unsettled him; how could he measure the consequences he had demanded on that bitter day now lost in non-existent history? He’d given his best friend a chance to live - to share his life with the woman he adored, and to hold in his arms the miracle of his son. Could the pain of losing them both be outweighed by the joy filled years that lay between?
"I do hope so," Zeus observed in a soft undertone, responding to his son’s words, not his thoughts. "Or your mother’s going to kill me ..."
Hercules frowned, not paying much attention to the quiet remark. "Was - what happened yesterday one of those consequences?" he asked. "Is Iolaus lying down there - like that - because of me?"
"Well - " his father hedged, a hint of embarrassment lurking in his expression "you could say that. I suppose. In fact - you’d have to, really. Seeing as how he was dead. And isn’t. Anymore. Yet," he added, looking away with a decidedly sheepish grimace.
"I’m not going to lose him," Hercules announced with determination. "Not this time."
"Attaboy," Zeus exclaimed, slapping at his son’s knee with gratified pride. "That’s the way to think. Be positive. You got him into this mess - you can get him out of it." A soft smile curved onto his patrician features. "He needs you, son. Don’t let him down ..."
There was nothing but dry hard ground waiting for him at the bottom of the cliff. Thick roots looped out of it, tangled shapes that rose higher and higher and higher as they vanished into the darkness. Staring ahead with dark adjusted eyes, Iolaus could just make out the point where bare and leaf free undergrowth merged into the columns of a winter forest; beyond it rose a dark mass that towered up and up, as if it never came to an end.
Except it did, of course. He was staring up at the interwoven roots of the tree; somewhere, high above him, the living wood would emerge into the promise of the sun.
He still had a long way to go ...
I need to rest, he sighed, glancing around in search of a safe place where he could do just that. He ached, a numbing insistence that filled his entire frame and seemed centered in his bones. Every movement took effort and he struggled against a growing temptation to collapse right where he was standing. The ground was nothing but hard packed earth, studded with stones and laced with twisting roots, but right then it looked like the most comfortable surface in the entire world. It was peaceful, too; the sound of the tumbling water seemed to have died away completely. There was nothing but the soft susurration of his own breath disturbing the cold silence into which he’d descended.
Just a little further, he thought dizzily, stumbling forward a couple of steps and bruising his right shin on a loop of iron hard root. Just a few more paces ...
He was on his hands and knees, although he couldn’t remember how he got there. Shadowed patterns writhed in front of his eyes, the interlacing of root and soil dancing through his perceptions with hypnotic fascination.
Oh - that’s pretty.
The swaying, twisting shapes seemed to form and reform, constructing a flowing, intricate alphabet. The words they spelt out promised all the secrets of time and space combined.
The ultimate answers to the ultimate questions.
Like how, and why, and what next.
Whoooaa ...
Iolaus blinked, shaking the mesmerizing images from his head with a decided effort. The words lingered like soft half heard whispers, most of which made no sense. He was no longer on his hands and knees. He was lying on his back, staring up into nothingness while a haze of stars whirled through his perceptions.
What was that about?
He’d nearly lost himself - had lost himself for a moment. The sensation had been decidedly disconcerting. He wasn’t entirely sure what had brought him to his senses either - only that something had kept him from that final dissolution of self. His own stubbornness perhaps.
All you were going to do was rest, he reminded himself with irritation. Not let go.
He rolled onto his side, wincing as the activity stirred the ever present murmur of pain. There’d been a stone or something, digging into his wounded hip, and the gnarled impression of roots pressing into his back; even so it took a decided effort to move. The exertion set his senses spinning again; he blinked and fought for focus, trying to identify the blurred and pale gray shape that was lying right beside him. A vaguely oval shape, patterned with patches of darkness ...
Gods!
Iolaus scrambled to his feet and backed away, his heart hammering a sudden tattoo inside his chest. The bleached skull gazed up at him mockingly, its empty eye sockets staring blindly at his startled retreat. The rest of the man’s bones lay scattered across the ground, gnarled roots wrapped around and over them. It was a timely and stark reminder and the wounded hunter shivered, realising how close he’d come to joining his fellow traveler in his eternal sleep. He couldn’t afford to let his guard drop, not for a moment. No matter how tired he felt. Resting clearly wasn’t an option. Rest in this place and he would rest forever.
A low pitched, menacing snort suddenly shattered the unearthly quiet that surrounded him and he spun, startled by the unexpected sound. It came from everywhere and nowhere, a snarling resonance filled with angry challenge.
Oh yeah ...
He’d almost forgotten about that.
He wasn’t exactly alone down here.
Somewhere - stalking among the tangled roots - there would be the beast he had to confront; the dark shadow of Winter that he had to defeat before he could begin his upward climb. He had no idea what sort of beast it might be, but whatever it was - listening as yet another of those menacing sounds shivered through the air - it wasn’t going to be friendly.
Come on, he chivied himself, rallying both strength and determination as best he could. You can do this. Monster hunting’s your specialty, remember?
Except that - usually- that kind of hunting was a two man job, with him acting as tracker, and sometimes bait while the son of Zeus provided the strong arm tactics that stopped them both from getting chomped on a regular basis.
Not this time, Iolaus ...
This was one monster he’d have to face by himself - although Hercules was with him, in that weird, indefinable sense of presence that had kept him company throughout his journey.
"Okay," he breathed, taking a moment to push fatigue down to the same place as the constant echo of his pain. "Sooner I do this - sooner I go home."
Home to where his partner nursed his wounded body with anxious care - and where the world waited, just as anxiously, for the return of the spring ...
"Daddy?" Ilea’s whisper was a tentative intrusion into the near silence that filled the dimly lit room. Hercules looked up from his weary vigil to find his daughter hovering in the archway, half hidden behind the thick curtain that Deineira had hung across it to help keep in the warmth of the fire. A tired smile crept onto his face and he held out his hand, offering up an affectionate invitation; the child practically flew across the distance, seeking eager refuge in the curve of her father’s arm.
"You shouldn’t be in here, sweetness," he said, his actions belying the gentle admonition in his voice. He lifted her up onto his lap, holding her close; she hugged him back with determination. "Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?"
"Mmhuh," she nodded. "But - storytime, daddy. You promised." Her look was wide eyed and earnest, conveying a suggestion of hurt feelings. He sighed.
"I did, didn’t I."
She nodded again, her lips adopting a tiny pout and just the hint of a quiver. His second sigh was deeper.
"Didn’t your grandmother tell you a story before she left today?"
The child shook her head, a quick and solemn denial. Hercules didn’t believe her for a moment; he’d heard snippets of the tale his mother had found to entertain the children while Deianeira had prepared the evening meal. Something about a hero and a tree, and a quest to win a crown. He hadn’t paid much attention to the details, but the murmur of Alcmene’s voice had been comforting company.
As comforting as the warmth of the child in his arms, the bright innocence of her life a reassuring counterpoint to the distressing traumas of the past two days.
"Liar," he accused affectionately. Ilea’s pout grew more pronounced. "I know," he acquiesced, the look melting any potential sternness into instant mush. "I did promise. I’m sorry, little one. I’m not really in the mood for stories right now."
She snuggled in against him, lifting herself up to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "All better now, Daddy," she announced with confidence. He had to smile, bending his head to press the same cheek against the soft silk of her hair.
"Oh, Ilea," he sighed, cradling her with gentle strength. "If only it were that easy."
A child’s kiss ...
The panacea of the innocent. The gift of a pure heart. It could cure a lot of ills - but it had little power to dispel the worry and concern that currently battered his soul. Still, her confident generosity did cheer his spirit, just as it was intended to do.
"Daddy?" she asked after a moment of silence.
"Yes, sweetness?"
"Tell me about the monster."
"Monster?" He looked down at her in puzzlement. "What monster?"
"The monster," she insisted. "The one that chomped Uncie Iolaus all up. Clonis said ..."
"Clonis - " Was wrong, he started to say, but her eyes were so hopeful, so filled with innocent expectation that he couldn’t bring himself to disillusion her completely. Was her question so surprising? Iolaus had filled his children’s heads with tales of their father’s deeds, never stinting on the excitement or the adventure - and never understating his own involvement for that matter. What were they to think, when one of the heroes of those adventures brought home the other in such a state?
"Was it a big monster, daddy? Did it have lots of heads and eyes and teeth and things? I bet you killeded it." Her tiny fist jabbed in against his chest with relish. "Didn’t’chya?"
He caught the compact fist, enclosing it in his own.
"No," he said softly, considering her shining eyes with a quiet sorrow she had no hope of understanding. "It wasn’t like that, little one. It wasn’t like that at all."
Would all of this be better if it had been?
What if he and I had faced down some fearsome beast together? If the wounds that threaten his life had been bought in battle?
Would all of this be easier to bear?
The waiting and the watching? He didn’t think so. But afterwards ...?
If the man survived, it would be a long time before the wounded hunter regained even a fraction of his notable agility. His left hand was almost certainly damaged beyond repair, and, given the severity of the other injuries, he might never fully recover either his strength or his physical adroitness. As scars of war, or souvenirs of heroic deed, such a legacy might be bearable.
And if he died?
A hero’s death guaranteed a man’s soul entry to the Elysian fields. Hercules had no doubt that his friend had long since earned that precious place, but even so ...
"Daddy?" Ilea’s question was concerned and he forced a smile back onto his face with stubborn determination. He had promised his mother he would be strong, and that was exactly what he would be. Although - he would give every ounce of his strength if, by doing so, he could be certain of keeping his best friend at his side.
"I didn’t see the monster, sweetness. Your Uncle Iolaus - faced it all by himself."
Oh, her eyes said, widening with wonder. They flicked to where the hunter lay silent and still beneath the warmth of the white ram’s fleece, and then back, seeking her father’s reassurances for the startled thoughts that now so clearly raced through her head. "Was he - very brave, daddy?"
The smile that followed that question was much easier to find. "Oh yes," he answered, knowing that - if there had been a monster - then Iolaus would have faced it with his usual reckless courage.
Thinking with his heart before his head as usual.
Am I the hunter or the hunted?
Iolaus was no longer sure which was which. He’d searched for what seemed hours before he’d been able to find his sword, knowing that he was going to need a weapon and doubtful that he would just stumble on one, no matter how many other heroes had walked these paths ahead of him. He’d located his blade a good distance from the dimly lit scarlet pool into which the waterfall thundered, and that only because it still glimmered with a hint of cold light. From there he’d headed inward, moving towards the centre of the pit and the heart root of the tree. It might have been safer to lure the beast out into the less thickly wooded areas of this underground forest, but the hunter knew that his time was limited and his strength even more so. It had taken him too long to find the sword; he had no time to spare for old hunter’s tricks, for traps or subtle strategy. He had to confront the beast and do it soon, so he’d set to tracking its lair, stalking his way through the rising roots with every sense on full alert.
It hadn’t been long after he’d started his hunt that he’d realised the beast was hunting him.
There was no real evidence for it. He’d not caught site of any movement, not heard any noise other than those snuffled, snorty growls that seemed to come from everywhere at once. But he was being tracked; he could feel it in his bones, feel the hairs on the back of his neck tremble with the knowledge of being watched, of being followed. His careful stalk into the thickets had become an unlikely game of hide and seek. One in which both players tried to hide while attempting to get the drop on their opponent.
It wasn’t an easy stalk, either. The most prominent roots here formed thick trunks that spiraled upwards into the dark. Between them, looping over, around and through them was a whole mass of tangled rootlets, in some places so thick that he was forced to climb onto their mass and edge his way forward while their flimsy support flexed and gave beneath his weight. Sometimes he had to squeeze through narrow gaps, grazing his skin against the rough surfaces. At others he emerged into open clearings where dark archways led off on all sides. Neither situation felt comfortable and neither of them were safe - he felt exposed and vulnerable in those open spaces, and trapped and restricted in the thicker groves.
The only positive note in the situation, although positive was probably an over-optimistic assessment, was the light. The closer he moved to where he thought the heart of the tree should lie, the brighter it got. Not blindingly, hey there’s daylight bright. Just a slow shift from almost total darkness to a cold, shimmering illumination, a little like that which pierced shallow water and lit up caverns along the coastal edges of the world.
It even flickered and danced the way that light reflected off water always did.
At least I’ll get to see this shadow ...
He grinned inanely at the thought, his tired mind latching onto the absurdity of the statement. You couldn’t have a shadow unless there was some light to cast it.
Another breathy snort resounded through the crisp air, whirling him round in startled reaction. When nothing else followed it he returning to his stalking, noting how his panted gasps for breath were condensing into little clouds of whispered vapour. It might be getting lighter, but it was also getting cold again. And the beast - whatever it was - was closer now.
Iolaus paused for a vital minute, leaning his weight against a rising root and tipping his head back to catch a moment’s respite. There were stars dancing in front of his eyes; the sword felt like a lead weight in his hands, and everything was screaming at him, demanding rest.
Just a little further, he promised himself, forcing slow deep breaths and drawing on every lesson the old man had taught him. Lessons in focus - the ones his teacher had shaken his head over, despairing that his impatient pupil would ever understand, let alone learn. And lessons in physical control, using the intake of breath to slow his heart and channel the ever present pain.
Time was, you’d have been trained for this, Gaia had said. Perhaps he had been. Not in one of her smoke filled temples, and certainly not from birth, but his whole life had been an education, learning to survive on the streets, learning to fight at the academy, and learning to be a hero at Hercules’ side. Beyond that - well, that year he had spent away had taught him a great many things. That he didn’t know everything for a start - and that a man smaller than he was could out fight, out think and out manouver him practically without breaking a sweat. It had been a sobering lesson, and the first of many that the old man had insisted he pay attention to. Too old to learn the good stuff, he’d cackled and then taught it anyway, expecting his apprentice to keep up, forcing him to face his limits and move beyond them.
He would be - Iolaus felt, levering himself upright and resuming his cautious stalk - very proud of his pupil right now.
I never saw the point of half that stuff while he was explaining it.
Just a bunch of tricks to play on your own mind. Parlour games. Fairground magic.
But it works. It makes a difference.
And now I’m begin to understand what he meant ...
Another menacing grunt whirled him round again, sword at the ready, every sense on alert. The tangle of rootlets rustled. Something crashed through the undergrowth to his right; the sound of heavy clattering echoed from that direction - and then every thing went silent, leaving the disturbing impression of something big having passed very close by.
The hunter relaxed from his tense stance, letting out a slow breath of relief. The sense of menace that had swept by him had been almost palpable.
Its just another monster, he reminded himself sternly. His lips tightened with determination and he paused to wipe sweat filled palms down his pants legs to dry them off. One after the other - except that the second was soaked with blood as well as sweat and his gesture simply wiped it over another weeping wound.
A big, ugly monster.
Probably with huge fangs.
Maybe two heads. Or a tail laced with spikes.
And bad breath.
They always have bad breath ...
"... so I grabbed it by the tail, and tugged it back - umph - just before it snapped its jaws tight shut. Like that."
A giggle followed the soft words - a girlish, little giggle, quickly swallowed. Deianeira paused on her way across the main room of the house to turn and stare at the curtained archway. She’d thought Hercules to be alone - apart from the man that he watched so attentively. If Iolaus had awakened he would hardly be laughing; more like screaming, she suspected. Moaning at the very least, immersed in inevitable pain. Besides, the hunter possessed a very distinctive laugh. And that wasn’t it.
That sounds like ...
She pushed the curtain gently to one side, moving it just enough to observe the room beyond it, but not enough to be observed. A tender smile curled onto her lips at the sight that awaited her; Ilea was curled into her father’s lap, her elfin face gazing up at him with wide eyed adoration. He held her so gently, cradling her tiny frame with hands that had the to power to rent raw metal if he put his mind to it.
"Well, Iolaus tried to dodge away, but the bite had been so close his shirt had got snagged on its teeth. When it jerked round to snap at me, he was tossed way across the clearing and straight into its nest. I jumped back and kicked it in the nose. And he started trying to smash the egg. That just made it madder than ever, of course."
Deianeira clapped her hand to her mouth to stiffle the laugh that threatened to escape. She knew this story. She’d heard Iolaus tell it to the boys only a couple of weeks before. With a few embellishments of course. Hercules had probably left out the part about the nest containing splintered bones, and wouldn’t have mentioned how the creature breathed a stench straight out of Tarterus. He might not think it worth mentioning; Iolaus, on the other hand, always paid attention to those kind of details.
"It knocked me flying and then ran back towards its nest, howling with anger. Your uncle Iolaus peeked over the rim - took one look at the teeth and claws that were heading towards him -"
- and heaved that egg out of the nest, hitting the thing square on the nose. There was raw egg everywhere. Herc’s shirt smelt bad for weeks ...
"Yuk." Ilea reacted, making a face at the image her father’s words had conjured. "Icky."
"It certainly was," Hercules agreed, trying to school the smile from his face. "But that distracted it long enough for me to pick up Iolaus’s sword and cut its head off."
"Yay!" the girl cheered, waving her hands to celebrate the victory. Deianeira chuckled softly to herself. Iolaus’s version gave the ending a little more colour; according to him, it had taken three blows to kill the thing. And the crew of the Argo had feasted on roast lizard that night. Tasted just like chicken, he’d said with relish, amused at looks of repugnance that had chased across both boys’ faces.
"Tell another!" Ilea demanded. Her father smiled and shook his head.
"No more stories," he said. "Not today. You should be in bed little one. Your mother will tell me off for keeping you up so late."
"She certainly will," Deianeira announced, pushing through the curtain and smiling at the pair of them. "Hercules, if she wakes up having nightmares about giant lizards I shall hold you responsible."
He obviously hadn’t thought of that possibility; his eyes widened and he glanced down at the child with anxious alarm.
"Uhuh," Ilea insisted, shaking her head with confidence. "Safe with Daddy."
The alarm relaxed into a wry smile. His arms tightened about his child with affectionate gratitude, clearly touched by her faith. "Always," he breathed, dipping to plant a kiss on the crown of her head. The watching woman felt her heart turn over, the immeasurable love she held for this man and this child encapsulated in that one poignant moment. She hated to disturb the picture – but she was a mother, and the child needed her sleep.
"Say good night," she advised softly, holding out her hand and beckoning with her fingers. Ilia wriggled out of her father’s arms, pausing to plant a soft kiss of her own on his proffered cheek.
"Goo’ night, daddy," she said brightly, slipped down from his knee, took half a step forward – then turned and, before Hercules could reach to stop her, ran to the side of the low bed over which he was keeping watch. Deieneira caught back an instinctive cry of protest, knowing that the child would not understand what it was that she was being reprimanded for.
"Goo’ night, Unca Iolaus," Ilea whispered, stretching herself up on tiptoe to plant just as soft a kiss on the unconscious hunter’s pale cheek. Her mother’s heart turned over a second time. It was a generous, tender gesture, offered with unconditional love. Such innocence …
Ilea had been scarcely more than a babe in arms when Anacles had died. Deianeira remembered how the desperate and frightened father had arrived at their house that day, carrying his stricken son; how the heartbreaking tragedy reached its inevitable end. And how later, with the boy laid to rest beside his mother in the cold earth, she had wrestled for some way to break through the depth of the hunter’s grief, until finally – impulsively – she had pushed her daughter into Iolaus’s unresisting arms.
He’d been blind to words of comfort. Heedless of any sympathy and deaf to pleas that he absolve himself of the guilt that so clearly devoured him. It hadn’t been his fault. But he had been locked in a private world of despair, walled away from logic and reasoning. His son was dead. Nothing could reach him.
Until the soft gurgle of a child had stirred his heart and pulled him back from the brink of the personal Tarterus that had threatened to enfold him.
He held her so gently. As if she were nothing more than thistledown …
It had been then that Iolaus had finally been able to weep – not the hot angry sobs with which he had denied the boy’s last breath, but slow and silent tears of true grieving.
It was such a tear that tracked down Deianeira’s cheek as she watched her daughter offer up her gentle benediction. Ilea hadn’t missed the hunter, that long year he’d been away – not the way the boys had, old enough to comprehend that he might not be coming back – but she’d learned to love him in the year since, worshipping him with the wide eyed adoration of the very young. To her all the men that made up her family were gods – her father, her grandfather Zeus – and her adopted uncle Iolaus, who treated her like a princess and gave her the best presents, even if they were just stream polished pebbles, crowns of meadow flowers, or delicate cocoons that hatched into glorious butterflies.
She’ll miss him so much …
"Come on," Deianeira encouraged softly, painting a smile of encouragement over the mask of her sudden sense of grief. Ilea flew across the floor and clambered eagerly into her mother’s arms, settling there with a soft sigh and waving a sleepy farewell to her father.
Hercules waved back. His own eyes were suspiciously bright, and he turned away with uncharacteristic haste, reaching to fuss over his silent patient. The white ram’s skin didn’t need resettling, nor the pillow need plumping up, but his wife knew it was something to do, something to occupy him beyond the sense of helpless vigil with which he faced the coming hours.
She sighed and carried Ilea to her bed, occupying herself with the reassurance of routine. She understood how he felt. She had that same sense of helplessness, knowing that there was nothing that he, she or anyone could do.
Except wait.
I guess it’s all up to Iolaus now …
"Gods!"
The hunter’s exclamation was an involuntary one, a startled curse torn from his lips as he threw himself sideways with instinctive reaction. One moment he’d been stepping out of another tangled thicket, every nerve on edge and the next he was tumbling for his life, bowled over by a sudden and explosive attack.
Something had charged out of the depths of the buried forest, breaking through the barriers of tangled growth as if the tough and wiry roots were little more than kindling and torn parchment. Nor had his desperate dive kept him from being struck by the charge. A solid wall of muscle had brushed his hip and leg, and his attempt at a defensive roll – the kind of manouver that had saved his life on innumerable occasions and usually allowed him to bounce back into battle with barely a pause – had turned into an undignified stumble which landed him flat on his back, staring at a twirl of stars.
"Whoa," he gasped, pausing for less than a breath – then scrabbled to regain both his feet and his sword, heedless of the screams of protest that came from wounded muscle and tired limbs. He had no time for that. He’d been attacked; it was something big, and he knew that if he didn’t get up and face it right then, it was going to kill him. The resultant mixture of reactive panic and determined anger fired his blood and tipped him into complete overdrive.
He’d had little time to identify his attacker beyond an initial impression of bulk, speed and a decidedly rank smell; his heart was pounding as he turned to face it, a sense of anticipatory terror adding to the turmoil that churned inside him. The dark shadow … His mother had never given specifics in her story telling. The shadow had always been just that – a half glimpsed image, filled with hate and menace. The only thing she’d been insistent on was the fact that it was also the hero’s shadow, his own darker self made manifest by the power of winter. And that, once it was defeated, that same hero never had reason to fear the dark – or the corruption of his heart - ever again.
The trouble with metaphors, Iolaus decided, finally staring his nemesis straight in the face, is that they never prepare you for the reality …
It wasn’t just a shadow that was watching him from across the clearing. It wasn’t even the mockery of himself that he might have expected, his own face staring back at him with evil eyes and a hate filled smile.
It was a pig.
A big pig.
A grizzled, 600lbs plus old tusker, the sort that sensible boar hunters avoided at all costs. It had little piggy eyes, and coarse tufted hair, and a pair of muck covered tusks that curved up from its lower jaw like broken ended daggers. It was an ugly, evil looking creature, and sight of it sent a cold shiver down the hunter’s spine. There’d been a boar once – he remembered its foul stench only too well - that had killed six men and gored three more before he and Hercules had succeeded in hunting it down. They’d pursued it all day, tracking it along the banks of the river Erymanthius, and had finally cornered it in a snow covered clearing where the son of Zeus had literally wrestled the thing to the ground. The tales had exaggerated the victory a little since then, but the danger had been real enough. That had been a big boar.
This one was bigger.
I can’t fight this, was his first – and decidedly horrified reaction. It’s a killer …
And it’s me, he realised on the second beat, seeing that same moment of recognition reflected in the creatures dark and beady eyes. All the nastier bits let loose to do as they please.
Like greed and gluttony.
Selfishness. Cruelty.
Anger.
And hate …
Fear became briefly overwhelmed by disgust and shame; he took a step backwards, recoiling from the sheer hideousness of the brute that confronted him – and the creature took a step forward, snorting eagerly as it pawed at the frozen ground.
Oh-oh …
He lifted his sword in instinctive defense, suddenly conscious of just how slender and fragile a weapon it was compared to the massive bulk that he now faced. It had a good edge, but there was no way that it would be able to penetrate the thick bristled skin, even with all his strength behind the blow.
What little I have left to me.
His arm was trembling as he raised the steel; he was acutely aware of every wound he carried, every scream of protest that backed the movement. The boar snorted again, first lifting its piggy nose to snuffle at the air with malevolent menace then dipping down to gouge at the earth with its jagged tusks. It ripped open a furrow a good hands breadth deep and three times as long. The hunter’s mouth went dry. Mis-time the dance with this thing and he’d be slashed wide open.
Deed followed the thought. The monster surged forward and he threw himself out of the way, striking out with the sword as he did so. The blade glanced harmlessly off the beast’s hide and the force of the blow jarred his damaged shoulder; he tucked and rolled, bouncing back to his feet and barely keeping his grip on the weapon’s hilt. The boar crashed through a tangle of roots and vanished back into the shadows, where its breathy grunting echoed through the otherwise silent landscape.
Iolaus took one look at the swathe of devastation it had created, turned on his heel – and ran.
It wasn’t fear that leant wings to his feet. It was a healthy sense of self preservation. He knew he had no chance against the beast in a confined space. It had weight and mass on its side and without room to manouver he was going to find himself fatally trapped between a rock and a hard place. Then too, his sword was a paltry weapon against such a creature. If he’d known he’d be hunting something like that, he’d have asked Gaia for a boar spear.
Or a ballista.
Maybe even a siege engine or two …
Come on, Iolaus, he chided himself as he ran. Think about this.
There had to be a way of defeating the thing. He just had to come up with one.
Before it went digging for truffles in his liver.
Something went crunch somewhere in the undergrowth behind him and he picked up his pace, hurdling obstacles and weaving his way through the rising roots at a punishing speed.
Herc, buddy, he considered fervently, do I wish you were here right now …
It wasn’t going to happen. He had his friend’s support. He had his sense of presence, surrounding him, anchoring him. But Hercules’ strong right arm – which was what he needed most – was not about to materialise and haul him out of trouble the way it had often done before. He was on his own for this one. Pursued by a nightmare that was the embodiment of his darker side, his own worst nature.
Which was probably made it the most terrifying thing he’d ever face …
For some reason his route had taken him inwards, rather than out to the more open landscape that he’d left behind. Instinct, not reasoning had picked the direction; he’d been travelling towards the heart of the tree ever since he’d started his journey and that was where his flight took him, rushing headlong into the source of the light. Even so, his inevitable arrival at the centre of things startled him. Not least because it left him with nowhere to go.
What the … he reacted, skidding to a bewildered halt at the edge of the lake that suddenly shimmered in front of him. He’d emerged into an arching cavern, its roof vaulted with the curvature of massive roots as they plunged down from above. At the very centre of the space they defined lay the prodigious tap root of the tree, emerging from the depths of the water and spiraling upwards like some giant’s staircase to heaven. Around it there spilled the lake, the light that filled the space gleaming from beneath its ice covered surface.
Everything seemed to be in suspension; nothing moved, nothing so much as stirred within that vast natural cathedral. Even the sounds of his desperate gasps for air were swallowed up and silenced. Time itself seemed frozen there, held in trembling anticipation. It was as if the entire world were waiting; waiting for something – for someone – to set event into motion.
Waiting for the power that lay hidden there to be set free.
Ahh - Iolaus realised, feeling decidedly disconcerted by the conclusion - I guess that’d be … me.
He was less than nothing in that measureless cavern; a mere speck beside the giants it had been shaped to contain. This was a sacred place: so sacred not even the gods would dare to walk there uninvited. What right did he have to stand there, on that shore, leaving the stain of his life’s blood on the shimmering crystals that bruised his bare feet?
Here at the heart of the world …
A thunder of heavy hooves announced the arrival of the beast, turning his head – and his attention – to more immediate matters. Insignificant speck or not, he was in trouble, and letting himself succumb to reverent awe and disconcerted humility was likely to get him killed. The monster crashed through the tangled walls of the cavern, its snout lifted to catch the scent of its quarry, its hooves kicking up stones and its humped back shrugging off a scattering of debris. Despair came in with it like a dark cloud, an almost tangible assault from which the hunter took a reflexive step backwards. The creature looked even bigger than it had before. It was pure, angry malice, a dark presence from which he recoiled with horror. He couldn’t face this. This was – everything he’d tried not to be in his life, a creature of pure selfishness without conscience or compassion. It had the smell of his blood in its nostrils and his total extinction on its mind. That was all it wanted. All it existed for. To be free of him.
After which it would be free to do whatever it pleased.
He glanced round in panic, hoping to glimpse somewhere to make a stand, or maybe just somewhere to hide - and found nothing but empty silence and the glimmer of ice.
The ice!
Iolaus’s heart – which had been sinking rapidly towards the pit of his stomach – leapt into pounding life and his lips curled into a sudden and reckless grin.
Of course.
Size wasn’t everything. He’d been proving that fact most of his life – and he, more than most, knew there were ways to turn an enemy’s strength into his weakness.
You just needed to keep your wits.
And have a few old hunter’s tricks left up your sleeve …
"Here, piggy, piggy," he crooned, taking a slow step backwards towards the lake. "Sooee. You want a piece of me? You come and get it."
He took another step, and then another, feeling the bitter cold of the ice as he slowly edged his way onto it. The chill was savage; it numbed his feet almost instantly, but he kept on moving back, his sword held out in challenge and his eyes fixed firmly on the terror that watched him warily from the shore. The monster was clearly measuring how much a threat he might be; its front hooves skittered first left and then right, weaving its massive bulk in a menacing dance of intimidation .
"Come on," he urged softly. "You’re not scared of me, are ya? Look at me. I’m half dead. Exhausted. I don’t stand a chance."
The surface beneath him shifted a little, the ice creaking under his weight. His grin took on a fey note; there’d been a chance – just a chance – that the whole of the lake had been frozen solid. The fact that it wasn’t gave his plan the glimmer of possible success – although it was just as likely that he was going to go down with his enemy.
If the thing even fell for it at all!
"Hey," he yelled, turning his attempt at subtle lure into outright angry insult. "You, you fat slob! You gonna stand there all day? I’m not afraid of you! You’re nothing but a bag of grease and hot air – all show and no guts. And you’re just plain pig ugly!"
The boar, which had been snorting and pawing at the ground, let out a sudden, savage squeal of anger – and charged into battle, its shoulders humped and its head down. Its speed was terrifying; it practically flew at its intended target, all four hooves striking up slivers of ice as they hit the surface of the lake.
Iolaus waited as long as he dared – about three short breaths of alarm – and then dropped, going down on one knee and driving the point of his sword into the ice with as much strength as he could muster. He and it hit solid surface at the same time; the action sent a jarring shriek of pain up his injured leg and the blow added a howling chorus from shoulder and hand. He had no time to react to that; he struck down again and again, his eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching monstrosity as it thundered towards him.
Break, curse it!
Break!
One more blow – and he was falling forwards, the sword sliding deep without resistance. Everything seemed to happen at once. He let out a yell and tugged backwards, rolling away and to the side as the blade came free. The scent of the beast was so close he was choking on it. Jagged tusks sliced at his shoulder, drawing a new line of blood. The monster slid into a scrabbled turn. He tried to scramble up and found no purchase on the slick surface. The beast was bearing down on him again and all he could do was struggle backwards in terrified panic.
There was a brittle, ringing crack.
And another.
And another.
Then a distinct splash.
The snorts of anger became squeals of distress. The creature’s weight had proved too much for the damaged surface and it was floundering in icy water, struggling desperately to get a grip on the shattered edge.
Iolaus found he could breath again.
Reluctantly. Each gasp for air drew a mix of bitter ice and rancid boar sweat into his lungs. He climbed shakily to his feet, leaning on his sword for support. Less than three paces away the monstrous creature was flailing for its life, its massive bulk conspiring to drag it down into the unseen depths.
"Whoo," the hunter wheezed, trembling from head to foot. Even like this the beast was a terrifying presence. What more, it was still trying to reach him. Its eyes fixed on him with determined malice and it lunged forward scrabbling for support. He took a startled step away from it and nearly fell, his strength having almost totally deserted him. The ice gave way beneath the monster’s bulk and it squealed a protest, striking out at the cracked edge with hoof and tusk, shattering it further and widening the treachery of the broken surface.
"Oh no – you don’t," Iolaus gasped, dragging the leaden weight of the sword up with both hands. "This – is where – you and I – part – company!"
The edge of the blade had been useless against the thickened hide. But the point, with all his weight and effort behind it, pierced the bristled brow, split the narrow skull and slammed in all the way, burying itself deep in the creature’s brain.
The boar screamed and arched in agony, dragging the hilt out of the exhausted warrior’s hands and sending him stumbling backwards. A fountain of water and gore erupted around the fatally wounded beast; its death throes were violent and churned the waters into agitated motion. The water and the light it spawned both turned blood red. The ice – already weakened by the initial damage – began to shift and shatter right across the surface of the lake. The creature howled as it sank and Iolaus, his vision blurred with effort and his body numbed by cold and pain, turned and staggered for safety, instinctively seeking refuge at the very heart of the place. He nearly made it, but the shattered ice suddenly tipped beneath him and he plunged down into the water, following his nemesis into the depths.
He was deep and drowning, sinking down towards the source of the light. The water pressed in around him, weighting his limbs and dragging him deeper; the depths were full of churning currents that tugged and twisted around him, as if the lake possessed phantom hands that were competing in some vast and eternal tug of war.
One in which he were the prize …
He kicked out, fighting free of that swirling conflict and struggled to regain the surface. The light seemed to be turning from a pure cold white to a warm coppery gold; the temperature was rising too, which seemed to help a little. He’d plunged down into icy depths; now he was lifted back up by waves of rising warmth.
Somehow his hands found purchase on the gnarled and twisted tap root and he was lifting himself up, out of the now turbulent waters. The conflict on the ice had reopened his wounds and the waves that surged and tugged at his feet were tainted with the rich crimson of his blood. He felt dizzy and light headed. The light around him was growing brighter; fiercer. Almost as if the waters had caught fire. He knew he couldn’t stay where he was, but there was nowhere left to go.
Nowhere but up.
He lifted his weary head and stared up at the arching shadows into which the rising root disappeared. It seemed to go on forever. Somewhere he found the strength to lift his hand and reach for a higher hold, his whole body trembling with the effort. Inch by painful inch he dragged himself up the twisted heart root, and on into the tangled mass that it supported.
Far below him the surface of the lake had begun to shimmer with an incandescent heat.
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