Lucan was whimpering. It was a tight, terrified sound of distress that he probably wasn’t even aware of making. His eyes were wide and filled with fear; he clung to his brother as the two of them were herded under a broken archway and into the open space that lay beyond it. Borus glanced around with desperation, trying to comprehend what was happening to them; fear had muddled his thinking and reduced him to a state of anxious panic. A part of him wanted to run away. Another part just wanted to curl up and make the world go away. He did neither, only too conscious of the horrifying figures that walked behind him and his brother, using the points of pitted swords to encourage their progress.
They stumbled into a terrifying assembly. Sorcerous light illuminated a ruined hall, one reduced to little more than waist high walls and cracked pavements. Skeletal figures stood in ordered ranks on either side of it, their bones reflecting the lurid light and their eye sockets filled with unnatural fire. At the far end of the hall was a dais and on that was standing a tilted altar stone, its carvings weathered into unrecognisable grotesqueness.
"Bring ‘em over here," a rasping voice demanded, the shape of its owner detaching itself from a shadowed corner and walking into the light. Lucan’s hands tightened on his brother’s arm and Borus choked down a gasp of terror. The leering skulls of their captors had been horrifying enough, but the figure that confronted them now was a ghastly parody of a man, his wizened skin hanging loosely on his bones as if there were no flesh beneath it. He was using a tall staff to support his meager weight, one that shimmered with a disturbing energy. The hand he raised to beckon them forward was like a taloned claw, and he carried an air of ancient decay, like a mummified corpse exposed to moisture filled air.
"Closer," the voice demanded and the long dead warriors forced their captives forward, the two men clinging to each other in almost mindless terror. A skeletal hand pushed, and they went down to their knees, Lucan folding over to bury his face in his brother’s tunic, unable to look, unable to move as the spectres loomed over him.
"Please," Borus managed, quaking with fear. "Don’t hurt us …"
The sorcerer stared down at them with contempt. "Yeah. Right," he drawled, and began to chuckle evilly. "As if ... Let’s see. Eeni, meeni, mini - mo!"
He gestured at Lucan and a bony hand grabbed him and pulled him away from Borus’s grip. The herder reached after his brother with reflex reaction, but was held back by another skeletal hand, its fingers sinking into his shoulder like ice cold claws. Lucan collapsed into a shivering bundle of terror, huddling over in front of the withered creature that considered him with pitiless eyes.
"Yeah," Periphas whispered, his lips cracking in a grotesque smile. "Guess you’ll do - for now, anyway." His hand lifted the shimmering staff, tipping it until its apex pointed down at the whimpering goatherder. "Don’t squirm," he commanded with a hiss. "This won’t hurt - much ... "
The staff jabbed down, the jeweled pommel touching Lucan’s shoulder. The young man’s whimper became a scream of protest. His body stiffened. He began to shake, violently. Wisps of blue white light began to spiral out of him, only to be sucked into the glowing staff. "No," Borus cried, struggling to reach the jerking figure. He was held back by fingers of iron, forced to watch as the soul of his brother was ripped out of his body and devoured by the power of the staff.
"Oh yess," Periphas breathed; the pale light that was being drawn into the staff was flowing out of it into him, wreathing him in a network of energy that sank into his withered flesh. A bent back straightened. Hints of muscle began to show under the loose and wrinkled skin. "Yesss!"
The sound of screaming choked into desperate silence. Lucan’s body jerked one more time and then relaxed, crumpling to one side so that he lay in an abandoned sprawl. The last of the pattern of light was drawn into the staff, its flickering energies discharging up the sorcerer’s arm. Periphas stood for a moment, savouring the feast, his eyes closed and his expression rapturous. Borus caught back a sob and fell back against the bony legs of his captor, grief overwhelming his other emotions. His brother lay unmoving, his body nothing more than an empty shell.
"Ahhh," the sorcerer sighed, opening his eyes and returning his staff to a support for his fragile weight. "I do so love a good rush." A small smile curved onto his lips and he turned towards Borus with an anticipatory gleam in his eye. "Now then," he considered, beckoning his servant forward. "Who’s next …?"
They traveled for a few more hours, moving at a far more cautious pace, an unspoken agreement keeping them together as a group rather than spreading out along the trail. It was not the easiest of journeys: the three of them walked with tense and wary steps, their senses pitched at full alert so that they reacted to even the faintest rustle in the undergrowth. Fortunately nothing dangerous loomed out of the dark, although the chill in the air deepened as they descended into the valley and with it grew an unsettling sensation of imminent terror, of something lurking out in the darkness, just waiting for a moment of weakness to strike ...
Hercules walked with wary steps, scanning the gloom beyond his torch for any threat, his concerns focused on the city they were heading towards and the frightened people they would find there. Orion walked with equal care, his torch held out on the other side, almost an exact negative of the broad shouldered hero.
And Iolaus stalked between them, both hands on his sword and uncomfortably conscious of a number of things he’d have preferred to ignore. He didn’t mind being towered over by Hercules. He was used to it - had grown up with it, for Zeus’s sake. But Orion was a head taller again, and right now he was hemmed between the two of them like the meat in a hero sandwich. He trusted the son of Zeus, but the Hunter was an unknown quantity. When it came to the fight - and there would be a fight, he could feel it in his bones - he had no way of knowing how the sturdy giant would act. Nor did it help to realise that the reason he was in the middle was the unspoken agreement between his two companions that - whatever hell spawned thing might come out of the dark - he would be the most vulnerable member of their party.
In Hercules’ case, that was merely an expression of comradely concern, and he accepted it as such. They’d fought together long enough to be sure of each other’s strengths and skills, and when it came to facing creatures spawned in Tarterus the son of Zeus did have certain advantages that his mortal partner lacked. From Orion, though, it felt like a disdainful insult, as if he’d been measured up and found sorely lacking without being given any chance to prove himself.
He tried to give the man the benefit of the doubt - he doesn’t know me - but even that spiraled down into more distrustful thoughts that the occasional sideways glance the Hunter threw in his direction did little to dispel.
He thinks I’m just a liability.
He thinks I’m beneath his notice.
Unworthy to carry her mark ...
That was the one that rankled. It was also the one that made sense of his earlier behavior, his apparent rudeness and scornful attitude.
I don’t need to prove myself to him, he told himself severely. He hadn’t asked for the silver crescent that now nestled in his palm; the Huntress had bestowed it on him with almost playful dispensation, claiming that he’d more than earned the honor - although he knew he’d never know for sure whether it had been bought by a sacrifice of pain or by kisses in the dark.
Or by both ...
Its significance hadn’t really sunk in at the time; those five days had passed in such a whirlwind of events that he’d barely got them all sorted out, even now. What had started out as a engaging experience with a fascinating woman had quickly become a complicated adventure in which nothing had turned out quite the way it seemed. He’d been kidnapped on behalf of one god, rescued by another - after having Ares steal the heart right out of him and getting his back flayed to pieces - and then spent two days and nights living with four paws and a tail, hiding from Discord and nearly getting burnt to a crisp in the process. That the fascinating woman had turned out to be one of Hercules’ immortal sisters had been a little disconcerting - and not just because of who she was, but also because of what they had shared together. She’d named him, claimed him - and then generously given him over to her brother as a gift. But what exactly did being a Hound of Artemis mean? The goddess hadn’t explained what her mark would portend - and he was beginning to think he should have asked a few more questions when he’d had the chance.
He sighed, trying to concentrate on his immediate situation - on the chill bite of the air and the flicker of fire cast shadows against the gloom. This was no time for introspection. His fingers were going numb from the cold. There were things lurking in the darkness that almost undoubtedly wanted to kill him. If not eat him. And he was the most vulnerable member of his current party. A mortal man walking beneath Hera’s cloak, with the son of Zeus on one side of him and a legend on the other.
The darkness grew more oppressive, the sense of menace ebbing and flowing around them like the swirl of some obscene tide. There were places where it became very difficult not to break into a headlong run, and the mental effort not to do so left him shivering, torn between a strong desire to seek some kind of refuge and just as strong a need to strike out in wild challenge at whatever lurked just beyond the torchlight. A glance at his partner revealed him to be equally on edge, his head turning at the slightest sound, his empty hand balled up into a tight fist. Orion was harder to read, a dark shape in a dark world that revealed nothing at all.
"We should reach the city soon," Hercules observed, breaking both their mutual silence and some of the tension in the air. "These are olive groves, not wild woodland anymore."
Orion nodded. "Soon," he said.
"Sure," Iolaus agreed, looking from one to the other and forcing the brave smile he knew at least one of them would be expecting from him. "But what are we going to find when we get there ...?"
Dinæ was burning. Or at least, that’s what it looked like when the travelers crested the last hill and finally got a look down into the main valley. The city lay in a natural bowl of the land, laid out in a series of concentric circles with precise and deliberated planning; only a few hours before the white marble of its buildings would have gleamed in the late spring sunlight like a necklace of ivory encircling the great plaza at the city’s heart. Now the marble was alive with flickers of gold and scarlet fire, livid gems set among the shattered remains of what once had been a proud and beautiful city. Only the central plaza was dark, a pool of shadow surrounded by rings of fire-stained stone.
"How can a city built from stone burn so fiercely?" Iolaus asked, staring down at the unexpected sight with dismay. Hercules frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out what was happening over a league away.
"Can’t," Orion announced, a hint of his earlier scorn tainting his voice. "Bonfires. Many bonfires."
"Right," Hercules realised, the information changing the focus of his vision. The apparently random pattern of fire light resolved itself into a series of purposely built blazes between which moved smaller flickers of light. Torches perhaps, carried by the citizens, or candles and lanterns set to illuminate the curving streets. "They’ve lost the sun, so they’ve made their own light. And heat," he added, noticing that his breath was misting in the chilled air.
"Thank the gods," Iolaus muttered, then snorted at his reaction. "Uh-uh. Make that - thank the citizens of Dinæ," he corrected with a note of irony. "I don’t think the gods are helping much around here."
Orion threw Hercules a measured look. "Gods can’t see through cloak," he stated bluntly.
"So we’re on our own," the son of Zeus responded, glancing down at his partner as he did so. "So what’s new?"
Iolaus snorted a second time, finding a wry smile to back the sound. "Business as usual, huh? It figures."
Hercules echoed the smile, glad to find that the oppressive gloom hadn’t managed to extinguish his friend’s spirit. The man had clearly found the last league or two hard going, fighting a battle he probably hadn’t even been aware of; even now the air around them was filled with a swirl of nebulous spirits, dead souls released from limbo and hungry for the life they had long since lost. They were bitter and angry phantoms, the kind that hated the living while yearning desperately for the warmth and passions they had been denied by death. They had been drawn to the travelers like moths drawn to a flame, daring the defense of the torchlight to snatch at them with insubstantial hands. They were not dangerous in themselves - those kind of ghosts had little power to harm the living - but they were gathered around the three of them so thickly it had been like wading through a baleful ocean, a tide that surged back and forward as each envious soul fought to get close enough to touch.
The dark skinned Hunter could brushed them aside with ease, his immortal spirit well armoured against such things. Hercules had recognised the attack for what it was and had shrugged away the worst of the onslaught, able to distinguish the effects of their malignant company from his own true fears. But Iolaus - Iolaus had merely endured, wrestling to maintain his courage while ignorant of their presence and unaware of their assault. His friend had not dared to explain it, concerned that to do so would heighten their influence rather than diminish it; while they were submerged in that miasma of menace, starting a conversation concerning malevolent ghosts didn’t seem to be a sensible move.
"Not safe to stop," Orion announced, and led the way down the slope, heading towards the distant city and its flickering fires.
"Come on," Hercules said, throwing his unencumbered arm around his partner’s shoulders and encouraging him onward. "There’s hot soup and a mug of decent ale waiting down there," he pointed out.
"Now you’re talking." Iolaus perked up immediately. "I’m so hungry I could eat an entire ox."
"That’s pretty hungry," his friend laughed. "Were you gonna save any for me?"
"Nah. You can get your own. Fact - uh - you can get mine while you’re at it …"
The jest - the kind of light hearted banter that had successfully eased many a weary journey - was interrupted by the sound of a scream. A man’s scream, his voice raised with startled terror before it was abruptly silenced. The two men exchanged one glance - and then both set off at a run, heading for the source of the sound, which had come from somewhere to their right. It hadn’t been Orion - he too had turned at the unexpected cry - which meant that one, or more, of the citizens of Dinæ was in trouble.
It wasn’t far. Barely two hundred paces down the hill they reached the edge of a road, and - on the side of that - signs of a watch post where, in normal circumstances, guards would be posted to keep an eye on traffic heading for the city below. These were hardly normal circumstances but it was clear that the guards hadn’t abandoned their duties. The low gate that barred the road was swung partially open and a fire was burning by the side of the small stone building; it illuminated a scene straight out of a nightmare.
One full of flames and shadows.
They flickered across the gleam of armour, the sweat of desperate faces - and the ghastly whiteness of bone. Three spectral warriors danced and cavorted in the clearing, their grinning jaws open in silent laughter as they battled their mortal foes. One guard was already dead. His body slumped over the spear that held it pinned, the point driven clean through his breastplate and into the wooden gate post behind him. Two more fought in the rutted road beyond, holding off their attackers with wild desperation. Their panicked blows were doing little damage to the gruesome figures that surrounded them, their sword edges barely deflecting the ancient weapons that sought their lives.
"Gods," Iolaus swore, ripping his sword free from its scabbard and diving into the fray. Hercules was half a step behind him, pausing only to seek some weapon or other with which to face the macabre warriors. He ripped the top plank away from the gate, and strode after his friend, hefting the wood like a makeshift quarterstaff. Iolaus had announced his arrival with a wild war cry, attracting the attention of one of the skeletal figures, which turned, abandoning its prey to defend itself against this new threat. A second one also turned - in time to be swept completely off its feet as Hercules waded into the conflict.
It landed in a heap, lay there for a moment, then rose up with an angry hiss, lunging at the broad shoulders of its foe. Hercules was already fencing with the third creature and he kicked out, driving the attacker back but barely avoiding the slash of its blade. They were fast, and they were determined, shrugging off blows that would have staggered mortal men.
Somewhere to his left, Hercules saw Iolaus dodge and drop, a jagged edge whistling past his shoulder and burying itself into the ground. An agile foot kicked sideways, staggering the monster backwards and giving the blond warrior time to regain his feet. His sword swung up, twisting so that he struck with the flat rather than the edge - and at least two ancient ribs shattered with a satisfying crack.
Hercules nodded once to himself and went back to concentrating on his own opponents. They had fought things like this before and it was clear that Iolaus had remembered the lessons he’d learnt the hard way. The thrust of the sword point was useless against creatures that had no flesh to pierce. You had to beat them into submission, piece by piece, keeping them unbalanced and hoping to find the one blow that would crush the undead skull and so dispel the unnatural power that gave them life.
At least this time he didn’t have a broken arm to handicap him …
A well aimed stroke severed the end of Hercules’ makeshift weapon; he twisted his grip on what remained and thrust forward, driving the splintered shaft in between empty ribs. A step forward and he had the leverage to lift one creature completely off the ground, swinging it round so that it clashed into the other one. Bony limbs tangled together and they struggled to extricate themselves; a well aimed kick sent the whole confusion tumbling, past the edge of the building and straight into a nearby tree. That separated them again and he launched himself at the nearest of the two, striking out with clenched fists and sending it staggering.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each blow struck hard against rusted armour and ancient bone. Ribs cracked. An arm went tumbling. The third blow shattered its sternum. The kick that followed cracked the knee joint and tipped it to the ground. Another kick and it tumbled backwards, landing in an ungainly sprawl. He powered forward and drove his fist straight down; the skull cracked - and the rest of the skeletal body just fell apart, reduced to nothing but dry bones.
Hercules straightened quickly, expecting its comrade to be charging after him. He turned - only to find the thing struggling for its unnatural life, held aloft by a brawny arm.
Orion had clearly seized the armoured skeleton from behind, his massive fingers clamping around its spine and lifting it up above his head. It was twisting and struggling, trying to claw down with taloned hands to strike at its captor, but with little success. The Hunter was simply shaking it apart, making its limbs dance and jerk with savage impetus. Pieces of bone and metal tumbled around him like an obscene rain, showering down to bounce and break on the hard earth at his feet. In a few moments there was nothing left but the hissing skull, dangling at the end of its curved spine.
The giant held it aloft a second longer - then slammed it down with deliberate force; the skull shattered into a myriad of pieces as it met the ground.
Hercules grinned, admiring the Hunter’s effective use of energy, and Orion flashed him a broad white toothed smile of delight, nodding satisfaction at the result of his efforts. Then the sound of a war whoop and the clash of metal against metal turned both their heads - and the son of Zeus headed back to battle, remembering that there was still a third dead warrior on the field, and that he’d left his partner to face it. He took half a dozen steps, which brought him round the corner of the building, took a moment to assess the situation - and stayed there, putting out his hand so that he could lean his weight against the stone and watch an artist at work.
The skeletal figure that held centre stage was looking a little worse for wear. It was listing to one side, one arm hanging limp and its left hip jammed up into its pelvis. The helmet that protected its skull was tilted over, covering one empty eye socket, and its lower jaw was missing entirely, giving what had been a menacing visage a slightly comical look. Its sword was lifted in defense, not attack, and it twisted and turned in frustration, trying to outmanoeuvre the agile figure that assailed it.
It had about as much chance of that as a fat rabbit pursued by a hungry fox.
Or a Hound of Artemis ...
Iolaus was dancing. There was no other word for it. He dodged and spun, striking in with precision and whirling away before the flailing blade could reach him. His eyes were wild and there was a fey grin on his face; it wasn’t often that he got to exercise his skills against an opponent where he had no need to worry about the morality of delivering a fatal strike. This warrior was already dead - and taking blows that would have brought down mortal flesh and blood a long time since.
"Eeyah," the living man howled, leaping forward to deflect the rusted blade upwards and deliver a well aimed kick at an exposed thigh bone. The skeleton lurched sideways. Its sword swung down - and its opponent was already behind it, following through with a sweep of his blade that struck across its shoulder blades and rocked it forward. The helmet tumbled free and Iolaus dived after it, scooping it up with his free hand and throwing it all in one smooth motion. It struck hard between damaged ribs and stayed there; a bony hand wasted precious seconds trying to tug it free.
"Had enough?" the warrior laughed and danced in again, not expecting an answer. A bald skull jerked up in alarm - just in time to stare straight at the point of the oncoming sword. The blow slid forward, piercing one empty socket and punching straight through the bone that lay behind it. The point emerged at the base of the skull; the hilt went on moving forward until its weight shattered the creature’s face.
And the rest of it collapsed like a gruesome marionette whose strings had just been cut.
Iolaus stood over the remains for a moment, catching his breath - then he turned and flashed a triumphant grin at his partner, who smiled and straightened up, bring his hands together in a droll round of applause. That elicited an impish bow of acknowledgment and a warm laugh. "Float like a butterfly - sting like a bee," the man declared with relish, retrieving his sword and kicking the bones apart just in case they decided to get up again. Hercules chuckled, stalking past him to help one of the quivering guards to his feet.
"I think we’re safe for the time being," he said, frowning at the wound that marred the man’s arm. "But there may be more of them in the woods. We’d better get into the city."
"They’re out there in the dark," the guard whimpered, clearly unnerved by the whole experience. "The dead. They’ve come to claim us. We’re all going to die ..."
"No, you’re not," Hercules declared firmly. "Not if I can help it." He turned to locate his partner, who’d walked back to collect his scabbard and resheathe his sword. "Iolaus, do you still have that wineskin? I think this man could do with a drink."
"He’s not the only one," came the immediate rejoinder. The blond warrior scooped up his abandoned pack and extracted the wineskin, shouldering one and taking a swallow from the other. "Still good," he decided, walking over to offer both shaken men the warmth of the wine. Vague phantoms swirled after him, the boldest souls in the incorporeal escort which still lingered in the dark, away from the flicker of the firelight. Hercules’ frown deepened, comprehending that some of his friend’s reckless energy had probably stemmed from finding an outlet for the nerve stretching tension that the ghosts inspired.
But they were avoiding the fire, which meant they might be less numerous in the city. And the city would be full of life, which would help to dilute the concentration of their malice.
"You’re - Hercules, aren’t you?" one of the men asked, a little of his courage restored by the bite of the wine. Hercules nodded.
"Uhuh. Iolaus and I - " he indicated his partner as he spoke, "were in Thiras when the earthquake struck. We thought Dinæ might need our help."
The man laughed nervously. "You can say that again," he muttered, taking another pull at the wineskin. Hercules smiled, acknowledging the irony of his words.
"And this is - " he began to say, turning to where Orion should have been standing, knowing that the Hunter had been barely a step behind him when he’d returned to the battlefield. The dark skinned giant wasn’t there.
But a massive wolfhound was - the same wolfhound that Hercules had last seen walking at his sister’s side in Pentheos.
"Hunter," Iolaus completed for him, staring at the dog with an odd look in his eyes. If there had been any doubt about Orion being who he claimed to be, it was dispelled in that moment when he walked out of the dark on four paws and came to sit at his fellow hunter’s feet. "He’s - ah - " The man took a careful breath and then followed it with a small shrug in his partner’s direction, "with us."
The rest of the walk into Dinæ was uneventful, despite Hercules being burdened with the body of the dead man. A short consideration - consisting mainly of a thoughtful frown from the son of Zeus and a wary shake of his sword brother’s head - had led to the conclusion that leaving the corpse to be collected later would not be a good idea. They’d wrestled him down from his perch while his fellow guards had gathered up as many of the dead bones they could find and tipped them into the fire. A blanket out of the watch post’s stores had served as a makeshift shroud and then Hercules had lifted the cadaver onto his shoulder and led the way down the road. The two shaken survivors had followed him, leaving Iolaus to bring up the rear, his hand back resting warily on his sword hilt and the dark coated wolfhound pacing at his side.
He didn’t like to admit it, but the events of the past half hour had unnerved him a little. Not so much the fight - which had allowed him to utilise some of the undirected energy which had been building inside him for hours - but discovering the nature of their foe, and the unspoken conclusions he knew Hercules had drawn from their presence. It was clear that something far more menacing than simple scorpions had been released from the netherworlds when that earthquake struck; something that had the power to bind long dead bones and imbue them with malevolent life. Probably the same something - or someone - who had called down this cloak of unnatural darkness in the first place.
That meant they were heading for a confrontation with one of Hera’s pet sorcerers.
Which - despite the fact that the queen of heaven was hopefully still clawing her way out of the abyss of time where Hercules had thrown her - meant trouble. With a capital T.
He sighed, well aware that half his life had been spent looking for trouble, one way or another. One of these days his luck was going to run out and it would come looking for him. Maybe it already had ...
He threw a sideways glance at the animal that now paced beside him. He was at a loss to explain the Hunter’s motivations. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed to appear in his true form when in mortal company. Perhaps he just wanted to avoid conversation - except that he’d offered very little of that in his human guise. What had Missy said about him, that day she’d introduced Hercules to her hounds? His recollections were fuzzy ones, blurred by memories of pain and the disconcertion of his four footed form. Something about his being fierce - and that he’d bitten her once … He suspected the remark hadn’t been meant literally; legend had it that Orion had spurned the goddess and tried to seduce - or even rape, according to some versions - her nymphs, neither of them acts likely to endear their perpetrator to a virgin goddess dedicated to the protection of innocence and virtue.
But she had loved him.
And still did, by the looks of things. He was first among her Hounds, a half mortal soul made truly immortal by her indulgence - or her remorse, since she was supposed to have killed him for his transgressions - and he carried her mark with a haughty pride. Was it so surprising that he might be scornful of an insignificant mortal who had had the impudence to win his mistress’s affections? Orion - like Hercules - was said to be a child of the gods, although legend had him being created rather than conceived. Iolaus was only too aware of being the son of a barely celebrated general, whose early life had been spent scarcely a step away from being little more than a street rat. Scarcely the stuff from which legends were forged.
On the other hand …
He’d earned his reputation the hard way, with sheer spirit and determination. His father might not have had much of a name as a hero, but he certainly had - from time served in several wars, spending heady days sailing on the Argo, and long years fighting at Hercules’ side. He was a warrior and a hunter, a friend to heroes, kings and princes. He’d faced warlords, fanatics and monsters, been to Tarterus and come back. He was even on first name terms with several of the gods - well, in Ares’s case that was more like first insult terms - and the son of Zeus called him brother.
What more did the Hunter want from him?
They reached Dinæ before he could come to any conclusions, which was probably just as well. Guards challenged them at the main gate, meeting them with nocked arrows and suspicious eyes. The men they had rescued were quick to reassure their fellows and they were escorted into the city, the word of Hercules’ presence lifting spirits the way it always did. Dameas, they were informed, was with the other city elders helping to co-ordinate a response to the emergency, so they left the dead man and his shaken comrades with the city guard and walked on into the fire-lit streets.
Dinæ should have been a beautiful place. It was home to a colony of artists and philosophers, men and women who pursued the arts and sciences in their purest form. They had taken a once small and insignificant settlement and turned it into a masterpiece, laying out their city with wide streets and carefully planned buildings. Marbled facades had been designed to face elegant squares, each centered on a fountain or statue. Lines of pillars should have supported painted awnings, their surfaces providing space for expression as well as shade from the sun. And water should have been tumbling down the carefully angled gutters, a whole series of man made streams designed to carry away the usual filth of the streets and keep the city fresh and clean.
Only now, there was water spilling across the pavements. Many of the pillars lay cracked and broken across the shattered slabs that paved the streets. The awnings had been torn down, their canvas and paint providing fuel for the bonfires that burned so defiantly in the darkness. Some of the buildings showed signs of damage, their roofs fallen in or their walls cracked open. Statues lay in the streets, thrown from their pedestals or tumbled from the walls that had once supported them. The city wasn’t quite in ruins but it had been badly damaged, and their journey through it was a careful walk that negotiated broken stone and avoided unstable walls.
Iolaus’ face grew grim as they made their way from bonfire to bonfire, seeing the people who huddled in the safety of the firelight. There didn’t appear to be many that were injured, but they spoke in subdued voices and watched the darkness with anxious and fearful eyes. There was a sense of uneasy despair written over the city, a tension building in its streets. The son of Zeus walked through it like a beacon of light, his presence spreading reassurance and lifting failing spirits - only for the gloom to swirl in behind him as he walked away.
"This isn’t good, Herc," Iolaus observed as they left one more bonfire to walk towards the next. "These are artisans, not warriors. What are they going to do if those - things - turn up and start attacking the city?"
Hercules paused and looked back at the fire they had just left and the silhouettes that were gathered around it. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that," he said a little bleakly. He glanced down at his partner and found a smile that lacked conviction. "The fires will keep the worst things away for a while. We’ll - just have to figure something out before they run out of fuel."
Iolaus snorted, half laugh, half disbelief. "Yeah. Right," he breathed. He took a moment to glance up at the darkened sky, then looked back at his friend with a wry grin. "All we need to do is - uh - close up this passage to Tarterus wherever it is, deal with whatever’s got out of it, and get rid of Hera’s cloak up there." He paused for a beat, letting the implications sink home, then added, with deliberate flippancy, "So what are we going to do after breakfast?"
Hercules laughed, a soft, warm chuckle of reaction that left Iolaus grinning to himself. It rarely failed. He’d long ago found that a well directed jest could lift his partner’s spirits with far more effectiveness than any long winded words of reassurance. You didn’t take time to wrestle with despondency - you laughed at it, defiantly, daring the world to do its worst. Sometimes it did, of course, but it was better to face it with a bold heart than simply lie down and give in.
"Do you never think of anything except your stomach?" Hercules asked, then grinned and reached to punch him lightly on the shoulder with a friendly fist. "Come on. Let’s find Dameas and see if he’s got any ideas as to where we should start."
He strode on, leaving his partner to rub ruefully at the point of contact. Usually he got enough warning to dodge back when Hercules was going to do that. The man didn’t always remember to curb the blow as much as he should, particularly if he was distracted. This time, he was distracted. That punch had been hard enough to bruise.
Just a love tap, Iolaus reminded himself cheerfully. He glanced down at the wolfhound that had kept to his heels ever since they’d entered the city and found it was watching him with an odd look in its eye. "So what are you staring at?" he asked impertinently and bounded after his partner, not really expecting to get an answer. He had to take two steps to keep up with each of Hercules’ manful strides. As usual.
The dog stayed where it was for a moment, staring after the two of them. Then it shook itself and scratched its ear, almost as if it were laughing at something, before running to catch up with the two men as they entered the next circle of firelight.
Periphas stood under the ruined archway of his palace and stared down at the city, its makeshift fires the only point of light in a world painted with utter darkness. His fingers caressed the soft glow of his jeweled staff and his wizened face was creased in a pensive frown.
"Are they back yet?" he barked, turning to glare at the nearest member of his faithful entourage. A pallid skull shook in mute denial; the sorcerer’s frown twisted with irritation. "Well, then one o’ya go find out where they’ve got to! Ah, sheesh," he breathed, rolling his eyes briefly skywards. "Not a brain between ‘em."
He stalked back through the arch and across the cracked floor, ascending the dais and perching himself on the edge of the broken altar. Three more bodies had joined those of the hapless goatherders; two young men and a sturdy farmer lay sprawled on the distorted pavement beside them. Their lives had clearly served Periphas well. He looked less like a dehydrated corpse and a little more like a man - one that had lived for nearly two hundred years and felt every day of it …
"Hey," he drawled, poking at the nearest body with the end of his staff. "Get up. You’ve got a tongue in your head. Talk to me."
The corpse stirred, climbing to its feet with stiff limbed jerks and twitches. It was Borus, his face an ashen gray, his eyes vacant and his mouth slack. "Master," he mouthed, his voice emerging as a low monotone. Periphas chuckled.
"You got that right." He settled himself more comfortably on the stone, laying his staff across his knees and studying his latest recruit with pleasure. "Now - tell me about Dinæ. Who rules there? Which gods do they serve? How many soldiers defend the city? And - uh - do they remember me, huh? Do they?" Borus opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again as his master went on speaking. "I remember them. That bunch o’ sniveling, traitorous cowards. They thought they could lock me up and leave me to rot. Well, I’m still here - and I bet ya they’re nothing but food for worms. Like you," he added with an evil leer.
"Two hundred years I waited. Planning my revenge. They betrayed me. Me - the guy that was taking care of them. Looking out for their best interests. I was gonna be ruler of the world - and I would’ve rewarded loyalty - oh yes I would … But they betrayed me. They imprisoned me. And believe me - worm food or not - they are gonna pay …"
"Two hundred years is a long time to hold a grudge." Dameas sighed, sinking onto the marble steps that ringed the oratory house and staring down at the ornate mosaic that made up the floor of the central rotunda. It was hard to make out the pattern in the flicker of torchlight, but that didn’t seem to bother the old man. "And it’s not even as if we had anything to do with his imprisonment in the first place."
"So who did?" Hercules asked. He was sitting two steps down from the sculptor, his long legs dangling over the archway of the actors’ entrance while he watched the city elders stand centre stage and argue among themselves. Dameas shrugged.
"The tale’s been - embellished a little over the centuries. It’s hard to be certain what happened here all those years ago. Thaletas down there wrote a play about it, but he’d be the first to admit he was drawing on poetic sources."
"Painters and poets have leave to lie," Iolaus observed dryly, quoting an old obscure Athenian proverb and earning himself a startled look from the sculptor, who probably hadn’t expected him to have heard it. Hercules wasn’t at all surprised. It was a mistake a lot of people made - assuming that his friend’s tousled exuberance implied a lack of both depth and education. Anyone who did so was entirely wrong on both counts; Iolaus had been as sternly tutored in history, philosophy and the arts as any of the Academy’s illustrious pupils - and had taken to it with a lot more enthusiasm than most.
"Yes," Dameas agreed, quickly recovering his poise. "That’s true - but there is some truth in the story all the same. Periphas did rule this valley, and the old city that stood here before this one was built. And he was a tyrant. An evil one. I’ve been to the ruins of his palace, up on the mountainside - and what little remains of his presence there is very unsettling. The palace was burnt and smashed, but you can still see some of the carvings and -" The sculptor shuddered expressively, "not work I would encourage, that’s for certain."
Hercules took that one on board with a soft whistle and the exchange of a telling glance with his partner. Dameas was a superb artist, renowned for his lifelike and intricate work in stone; he had executed commissions throughout Greece and left his mark on many of its monuments. Let the stone tell you, was his firmest advice - and when he had carved the image of Zeus for the temple in Greater Thebes, Hercules had proclaimed it the finest likeness of his father he was ever likely to see. Although Dameas had never seen the king of the gods, the stone had been shaped by his hand and the sculptor had found his visage in the marble with remarkable ease. But the man was also a dedicated teacher, prepared to put aside his own creativity to encourage it in others. He could shape talents with as much expertise as he shaped stone and his students were taught to be experimental, to explore their inner views and express their emotions as well as reproduce the patterns of the world.
So if there were a work of art that Dameas disapproved of, its subject must have been unsettling indeed.
A young woman approached the three of them, carrying a tray loaded with food and drink. She offered it up to Hercules, who gave her a grateful smile as he reached down to help himself to a piece of bread and a goblet of wine. She smiled back a little shyly and glanced at Dameas, who waved her on with a distracted hand. That left her to turn her attention to Iolaus, who greeted her with an engaging grin; her shy smile collapsed into total self-consciousness and he had to jump gallantly to his feet in order to prevent her entire load tumbling straight into his lap.
"If this darkness is the work of Periphas," Hercules observed, suppressing a small smile as he watched his friend leap to a lady’s rescue yet again, "then maybe it’s because he doesn’t know his old enemies are long gone from here."
Iolaus had steadied the tray and was busy taking appreciative notice of the rich scent that was rising from its bowls of soup. The lady was equally busy taking appreciative notice of him ...
"You may be right," Dameas agreed with a frown. "According to the legend he’d ordered a magnificent tomb built for the body of his dead wife. When it was finished he was persuaded to inspect it - and when he’d descended into its depths the builders sealed him in, along with the dead warriors he kept as his personal guard. They say the mountain shook for an entire month while he sought a way to escape. But that could be poetic license again."
The young woman had returned to her allotted task, though not without a wistful glance over her shoulder as she went. Iolaus had dropped back to his seat with a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, both of which he started attacking with gusto; the dark haired wolfhound, which had been asleep on the step beside him, opened its eyes and lifted its head from its paws.
"The mountain certainly shook today," Hercules said, taking a thoughtful bite of bread and chewing on it slowly. "And we ran into three dead warriors getting here. Too much of a co-incidence?" he wondered. "I don’t think so."
Iolaus’s hungry assault on his meal was slowing; he’d begun to realise he had an audience - an unnerving audience with big teeth and strong jaws - and whose large eyes were currently fixed on him with inscrutable patience.
"Dinæ has done nothing to draw down the wrath of Hera," Dameas sighed, glancing up at the starless sky that still hung above them. "Or any one else for that matter. We honour the gods here - carve their likenesses, tell their stories, even sing their praises with lyric and rhyme."
"You can have," Iolaus remarked warily, "too much of a good thing." He was staring at the animal beside him as he spoke. Their eyes stayed locked for a moment longer - then the warrior grimaced self annoyance, dunked the end of his bread in the soup and put the bowl down on the step, pushing it in Hunter’s direction as if he’d had his fill. The dog immediately scrambled up and wolfed down what was left. Which had been, Hercules noted abstractly, well over half a bowlful.
"The people are scared," the sculptor continued worriedly. "They don’t know what to do or where to turn. If this darkness lasts much longer they will start acting on that fear - and desperate people do desperate things, Hercules. I fear for my city far more than I fear an old ghost that may be nothing more than a tale."
The son of Zeus sighed. "I know. But those warriors we fought were no tale, Dameas. Nor were those scorpions we met. That quake opened a passageway down to the underworld - and it must be closed, before something much worse crawls out of it."
"You’re right, of course." Dameas agreed bleakly. "I wish I could offer you help but - we are artists, not warriors. Those few we do have must stay and guard our gates - especially if there are - things - out there in the dark ..."
I wish he hadn’t said that.
Iolaus was recalling Dameas’s words with wary misgivings as he followed his partner out of Dinæ’s northern gate. The sculptor had given precise directions, both as to the whereabouts of the ruined palace and of the entrance to the so-called tomb, higher up on the mountain. Hercules had decided to check the tomb first, since it seemed more likely that the passageway they sought would have opened somewhere deep in the earth. It was going to be hard going, climbing the steep incline of the mountain and making their way through the forest in the dark - and the thought of what might have found its way up from Tartarus in the meantime was not an encouraging one.
Still, if the damage were left unchecked then a lot more things were likely to be appearing - and that thought was an even worse one ...
The guards at the gate handed them a torch dipped in pitch which gave a much better light than the makeshift ones they had used to find their way to Dinæ. They also watched the pair of them depart with shaking heads and muttered comments. It was clear that they believed that leaving the city right then was tantamount to committing suicide; in the measurement of normal time, night had fallen and the cold chill of the air within their prison of darkness had acquired a bitter bite.
Hercules, of course, barely noticed. He strode out into the wilderness with a determined pace, his eyes fixed on the way ahead and his mind focused on whatever might wait ahead. Iolaus, with a wary sense of self preservation, had paused to snatch up a blanket and drape it around his shoulders like a cloak; it kept out the worst of the chill at least.
"Oh, this is just great," he found himself muttering at the wolfhound which had waited while he acquired his prize. "This way to the underworld, folks. Guaranteed no waiting - just bring your own shroud ..."
"Come on, Iolaus," Hercules called, and he picked up his pace, jogging after his partner so as to stay within the radius of the light he carried. Somewhere behind him he heard the gates of the city slam shut, more a gesture than intended defense since the walls on either side barely extended beyond forty paces. Even so he shivered. There was a finality in the sound that had an ominous ring.
The road led upwards, following the rising curve of the land. It was paved for less than a quarter of a league. After that it turned into a dusty dirt track, the kind used by herders to drive goats or cattle. There were no passes over the mountain, and no-one would have used them even if there had been. They were heading straight for the heart of the haunted forest, which was basically nothing but wilderness once you rose above the civilized reach of the city. Normally Iolaus would have welcomed the change; while he liked to visit civilization, he loved the country - loved the sense of freedom it gave him, the clarity of the air and the infinite challenge of each and every day spent within it. He liked that about going to sea too, but he was a better hunter than he was a sailor - and being an Argonaut, that made him a very good hunter indeed.
Which was probably why every instinct he possessed was screaming that this journey was not a good idea. The very air felt inimical; it pressed in on him with an oppressive weight that grew worse the higher he climbed. They passed out of open land and entered one overhung with trees. Phantoms moved and flickered at the corner of his eyes, only to vanish into the general darkness whenever he turned his attention on them. Hercules led the way with confident steps, his figure rimmed with light and his shadow striding beside him like a distorted giant. Iolaus gritted his teeth and scrambled after him, the steepness of the slope slowing his steps so that he began to fall further and further behind.
And then there was a real giant standing in his way, his hand outstretched to impede his progress with imperious command.
"Go back," Orion ordered firmly, his face set into stern lines. "Today not good day to die."
"When is it ever?" Iolaus asked, scowling at the unexpected obstruction and the sight of Hercules and the torch vanishing into the distance beyond it. He’d not noticed when the wolfhound had left his heels and the Hunter’s sudden appearance had startled him.
Now what does he want ...?
"I go with Hercules," Orion announced, pointing at himself to emphasis the point. "You - go back."
"Just like that, huh?" Iolaus stared at him, trying to read his expression; they both should have been being swallowed up by darkness as the torchlight moved further and further away, but the Hunter stayed disturbingly visible, his ebon framed rimmed with the faintest of illumination - almost as if he were outlined by starlight. Except that there were no stars in the sky. "Well, forget it, amigo. The only place I’m headed is after Hercules. So - start walking, or get out of my way."
Orion shook his head. Slowly. Almost with regret.
"No. I know - I know danger waits. Up there. You go - you may die. Better you go back."
"I don’t have time for this," the warrior decided irritably. He knew how dangerous the situation was - and Hercules was striding into it, thinking his partner was right behind him while this - this interloper - insisted on detaining him just to state the obvious. He was being pretty aggravating about it too. He tried to side step the Hunter and found himself effectively blocked by the man’s looming bulk.
"You either brave fool or very stupid," Orion declared, folding his arms and glaring down at Iolaus with determined eyes. "So you listen." He jabbed a finger to add weight to his point and the warrior stared back at him with equal stubbornness, folding his arms and adopting a defiant stance. "You named hound. Carry mark. Her mark. Day you die, Huntress come for you.
"But Missy cannot reach beneath cloak. Cannot come here. Here queen of heaven rules. You die today, she claim you. She who hates Huntress. Hates Hercules." He paused to shake his head with sorrowed assessment. "Would enslave you forever."
"So?" Iolaus demanded, stung by the look rather than the words. "That supposed to scare me?"
"Yes," the Hunter growled, leaning forward a little, a looming shadow in the overwhelming gloom. "Go back to Dinæ. Be safe."
"Dinæ’s not safe," the warrior reacted, not liking what he was hearing. "Nowhere’s gonna be safe - not until this business is over and done with."
"Temple of Demeter good place to hide," the dark voice continued as if his company hadn’t said anything at all. "You slip through shadows, no one see you. No one know."
No one -
The idea was so outrageous that for a moment Iolaus stood utterly dumbstruck. Then the sheer slander of the suggestion ignited all the smoldering resentment that he’d been storing up ever since the Hunter first stepped out of the dark and looked at him as if he’d just crawled out from under a rock. "What? What?" he demanded angrily. "You want me to tuck my tail between my legs and slink away? I don’t back down from a fight without good reason - and you aren’t giving me good reason here. I am sick to death of your arrogant, condescending attitude. Maybe you are better than I am. But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like dirt beneath your feet. I earned this mark, just as I earned my place at Hercules’ side and I’m not about to dishonor either of them." He was glaring at the Hunter as he spoke, his hot words adding fuel to his growing fury. "Maybe I am scared. Maybe I could die today. But I’m not gonna run away, and I’m not gonna hide - and you’re not gonna make me!"
Orion took a half step back, taking up a challenging stance. "You go," he ordered, jabbing his finger towards the city. "Or go through me."
Iolaus nodded, an angry smile curling onto his face. A quick tug dropped the blanket from his shoulders. "That’s how you want it?" He tossed his sword forward, past the point that the Hunter guarded and dropped into a half crouch, mirroring the giant’s readiness for battle. "Then that’s how you’ll get it."
It was not - he had to admit later - the most sensible thing to do. Orion had all the advantages of weight and reach and strength, which - together with the fact that he was also an immortal - put all the odds in his favour. But Iolaus was too furious to let a little matter like that make his decisions for him. And Hercules was already too far ahead for his liking, walking into the unknown, about to face who knew what without his partner there to watch his back. So - maybe he had to beat a little respect into this hulking hound, and teach him that size wasn’t the only way to measure a hero.
Besides, he reminded himself hotly, the larger they are, the harder they fall …
He dived forward, feinting a direct attack, then dropped into a roll at the last minute, kicking out at bare feet as massive arms closed overhead. Orion went down, tucking his body over and recovering with a tumble and a bounce back to his feet. Iolaus was already up, launching a spinning kick at an unbalanced midriff. It hit solid flesh and staggered his opponent backwards.
Keep him off balance.
Don’t let him catch his breath.
Use your speed …
Long days of training at the Academy had taught him that sheer brute strength could be defeated by speed and agility. Orion had all three - but he had too much bulk to match the nimble energy that Iolaus could draw on when occasion needed it. They danced around each other, the Hunter struggling to catch and - having caught - hold on. His challenger dodged and feinted, striking out and retreating before those massive hands could get a firm grip.
Even so, he took some blows. A sharp, sudden backhand sent him spinning, and he barely rolled away before Orion pounced after his fall. Another dodge failed to avoid a clenched fist; it impacted in the small of his back and sent him, sprawled and breathless to the forest floor. He picked himself up and went back to the assault, breathing a little heavier but no less determined. Orion - who’d started this with a confident look on his face - was now taking him a little more seriously. They faced off, each watching the other with wary eyes, neither one willing to back down, both looking for the next moment of advantage.
"You not win," the Hunter growled, lifting his hand to wipe away the blood that spilled from a split lip. "I catch you - you submit to me."
"Yeah?" Iolaus laughed, unimpressed by the threat. "Well, you have to catch me, first."
He bounced in, taking the opportunity to strike a whole series of quicksilver blows, kicking out at a knee, and following through with a clenched fist, and the heel of his marked hand. Orion staggered and he ducked, slipping under an outstretched arm to strike back at an exposed shoulder with his forearm as he passed. The Hunter spun, dropping to his hands and kicking out as he did so. One bare heel tipped the warrior’s thigh and he staggered away, his whole right leg momentarily numb.
"You good," the deep voice noted, gasping briefly for breath. "Fast. I like that."
"Now I get the compliments," Iolaus muttered, favoring his bruised leg as surreptitiously as he could. "Maybe I should have hit you earlier."
"Maybe you should," Orion smiled, advancing with menace. The warrior glanced around, measuring his situation. There were trees behind him and bushes on either side. He’d been backed into a corner, retreat impossible, a sideways dodge likely to lead him straight into those massive arms. The Hunter’s smile widened. Iolaus frowned, glanced up - and launched himself upwards, leaping for the tree branch overhead. His hands caught hold and he kicked out with both feet, his boot heels impacting straight into his opponent’s chest and staggering him backwards.
A quick flip and he was standing on the branch, then he leapt out with his hands extended, and used the Hunter’s shoulders as a spring board to return him safely to the open ground. Orion spun, staring at him with unreadable intent.
"You crazy," he concluded, shaking his head as he did so.
"Yeah," Iolaus gasped, realising that he had - albeit unintentionally - achieved his initial goal. "But I got past you." He dipped his hand, snatched up his sword and set off into the dark at a run. The initial heat of his anger had been tempered by the fight. He knew he had no hope of beating the Hunter, any more than he would of besting Hercules in serious conflict. But he’d proved his point - and while it was possible that he’d made Orion mad enough to race after him, he had every reason to hope that the giant would simply abandon him to fate. He smiled a little wryly as he realised he was doing exactly what the giant had recommended. He was running away - but from Orion, not the threats that the Hunter’s taunts had laid out with such clarity. What’s more, he was running into danger, not out of it; somewhere ahead of him lay the way into Tartarus itself.
Hercules frowned at the carved pillar that loomed out of the darkness, trying to decide if this was the one Dameas had meant.
Turn south when you reach the solstice stone ...
The carvings were worn and faded by weather and time, but the shadows that the torch threw revealed vague images of a sun and a figure in a chariot below it. It was too overgrown to make out much more, but it looked as if it might be the right one - and there was the vaguest sign of a path here, leading south. He turned to ask Iolaus his opinion - and found himself alone, no sign of anyone within the circle of the torchlight.
"Iolaus?" he called warily, then - a little more anxiously, "Iolaus!"
He took a few steps back down the trail, lifting the torch high and staring past its light into the darkness beyond. There was nothing to see but a swirl of phantom forms, faint images etched against the pitch black sky. The hostile ghosts had crowded the lower slopes and this far from the city their animosity was almost tangible. Hercules frowned, wishing he’d paid less attention to the trail ahead and a little more to what was happening at his heels. Such a continued assault on the psyche might bring even the most indomitable of spirits to the brink of despair; perhaps he should have found time to warn his partner about that possibility.
"Iolaus!" he called again, apprehension colouring his voice. The man had been right behind him the last time he’d thought to look ...
"Right here, Herc," the blond haired warrior announced breathlessly, appearing out of the dark at the run and slewing to a panting halt in front of his friend. "Got a little - delayed - back there. Thought I’d - lost you." He paused to take a few gulps of cold air, his breath condensing around him in a fine mist. "Boy - is it dark tonight or what?"
Well, it clearly hadn’t been the ghosts that had delayed him; his hair was tousled, his skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat and his eyes burned with familiar cerulean fire - a wild, defiant look rather than a despairing one.
"You all right?" Hercules asked with concern. This was dangerous ground - and not just because of what was wandering around in it. The land itself was treacherous, the unnatural night concealing the steep slopes and sudden gullies that lay in wait for the unwary traveler.
"Fine," Iolaus assured him blithely. "I’m fine." The son of Zeus wasn’t convinced. Something had happened. Something that had made the warrior abandon the warmth of his borrowed blanket - and work up a sweat afterwards.
"Uhuh," Hercules acknowledged a little skeptically. He glanced around, seeking movement in the dark and found none. None at all. "So where’s Orion?"
"Mmm?" His partner had gone to look at the stone, running his hand over the carvings in an attempt to interpret them better. "Orion? Oh - um - back there. Somewhere." His thumb jerked back down the trail with dismissive nonchalance. "He’ll - catch up. If he wants to," he added, half under his breath. Hercules’ expression deepened into a wary frown.
"Iolaus," he began to say. "Is there something - " you should be telling me, he was going to ask, but his words were cut short by a sudden horrific screech and the rush of leathery wings. Iolaus ducked back against the pillar as deadly claws raked the air over his head and Hercules had to leap out of the way as the creature continued its savage dive. He glimpsed a dagger like beak stabbing inches from his shoulder and thrust upwards with the torch, striking resistance and eliciting another of those ear splitting screams.
"Gods," he heard his partner swear, followed by the ring of steel striking stone. He didn’t have time to see what that was about; he had his hands full ducking and swatting as two more of the winged horrors joined in the attack. Claws scrabbled at the leather of his jerkin; he dodged and rolled with desperation as razor edged beaks stabbed and slashed towards him. He lashed out with the torch, sending one tumbling away, its unearthly voice caterwauling protest; the other two darted in with lightning speed. Pain lanced across his cheek, an impact that burned like fire. He thrust out his unencumbered hand and seized a scaled leg, slamming it owner downwards as its wings beat at his arm. It hit dirt hard - and one of the mind numbing chorus fell suddenly silent.
"Duck!" Iolaus yelled from his right and he did just that, feeling the rush of disturbed air as wings buffeted at the space he’d just abandoned. Something collided with the torch, sending it spinning from his hand and he rolled over, kicking up and out, and felt something snap as his boot made contact.
That’s two ...
They were impossibly fast. He scrabbled sideways as beaks jabbed and claws slashed, shielding himself with one leather armband while he groped for a weapon. Somewhere in the darkness he heard another of those piercing shrieks end in an abrupt and ugly gurgle and he smiled grimly, registering the fact that his partner was still in the fight.
Three ...
His hand was on the smooth handle of the torch; he leapt to his feet, swinging the weight of packed wadding and burning pitch round in a circle and picking up speed as he turned. Sparks flew. The weight met resistance; the resistance gave way in a series of agonised screams.
Four.
Five.
Six ...
He was standing in silence, breathing heavily in the bitter air, his breath wreathing him in a white mist. The cut across his cheek was bleeding and he reached up a hand to wipe at it, wincing as his fingers made contact. It wasn’t deep, but it was painful.
"Herc?" Iolaus’s voice, cracked with concern. Hercules turned, finding his friend resting his weight against the stone, his sword blade slicked with blood and his chest heaving with effort. "You - okay?"
He nodded, striding over to lift the torch and make sure that all the blood was on the business end of the weapon. It was; the warrior was unhurt, although not, by the looks of things, from their attackers want of trying.
"What in hell - were those things?" Iolaus wondered, eyeing the surface of his left armband as if he expected the leather to be ripped to pieces. It wasn’t - but then the bracer in question had been a gift from a goddess, and was undoubtedly a lot stronger than it looked. Hercules glanced down at his own gleaming gauntlet and - not for the first time - silently thanked Hephaestus for the quality of his work.
"I’m not sure," he said, answering the question by kicking over the nearest corpse and studying it in the torchlight. The creature had dark leathery wings, tipped with two inch claws, a pair of savagely taloned feet and a needle thin beak, edged like a razor. What it didn’t have were eyes. The skull was smooth, not even indentations to mark where eyes ought to have been. "More scavengers, I think. Hades likes to keep things clean."
"Urrrgh," Iolaus shuddered - or shivered, it was hard to tell which. "Remind me never to picnic near the Styx."
Hercules chuckled. "I will. Come on," he suggested. "Let’s get out of here before the scent of blood attracts something worse."
The warrior glanced down at his sword - and hastily wiped it clean on the nearest clump of grass. "Right behind you, Herc," he declared stoutly, and - for the first time in a long time, Hercules found himself wishing he wasn’t. Not because he didn’t welcome the man’s company, but because these deadly creatures were merely a taste of what might lie ahead of them - and there was a strong possibility they might both be walking to their deaths.
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