Hercules came round with a groan. Stars danced in front of his eyes as he opened reluctant eyelids, and he hurt - hurt from head to foot, his whole body battered and bruised as if he’d been dragged a thousand leagues or more.
"Ohhhh," he managed, easing himself up a little to try and make sense of where he was. A weight slid from his shoulders, rocks and stones clattering as they tumbled away in the dark. "Ahhh ..."
The world around him was black as pitch and he groped around, trying to identify his situation. He seemed to be half buried in a tide of gravel and debris; most of it sat on his legs and hips and he crawled forward, tugging himself free of its clutches with difficulty. His body - which normally answered his demands with eloquent strength - protested the effort, and he was washed by a wave of disorientating dizziness.
Gods, he muttered to himself, dropping his forehead down to rest against the cool metal of his gauntlet. It took a lot to leave him feeling as bad as this ...
Someone else groaned softly beside him; he turned his head to find the dim shape of a man lying to his left: a dim shape defined by the faintest shimmer of light, not enough to see by, but just enough to make out the Hunter’s powerful frame as he wearily levered himself onto his hands and knees.
"Orion?" Hercules gasped. The barely glimpsed head turned in his direction and a hand reached out of the darkness to clutch at his shoulder.
"I survive," the Hunter’s velvet voice answered, sounding a little unsure of itself. "You?"
The son of Zeus nodded, reaching to clasp the man’s arm with comradely assurance. "Think so." He struggled for breath, exhaustion turning each heave of his chest into unaccustomed effort. The ground shuddered under him, a gentle rumble compared to its earlier violence, but enough to disturb a cascade of broken stone that showered the two of them with dust. "Let’s - get - out of - here ..."
They made it to their feet with determined effort and staggered forward together, each leaning on the other to keep their balance. Somewhere ahead Hercules could now glimpse a glimmer of light - the lurid whisper of the sorcerous torchlight that had lit the inner tomb.
Iolaus ... He allowed himself a tired smile, picturing the anxious look that would undoubtedly greet their emergence from the tunnel, and inwardly thanking his foresight for sending his partner on ahead. He and Orion had barely escaped the whirlwind collapse of the cavern, and he was half immortal and the Hunter was a demi-god. There was no way that a mortal man would have survived the experience.
Although ...
Hercules’ smile slipped into a frown as the two of them staggered as far as the start of the shallow steps. Iolaus must have heard the cavern collapse, would probably have felt the rush of wind as it ripped through the tunnel, and seen the surge of dust that it carried. So why hadn’t he rushed back into the tunnel once the worst of it had subsided, recklessly ignoring the risks the way he always did when he thought his best friend might be in trouble?
Strength deserted him; his knees buckled and he went down, dragging Orion with him. The Hunter let go his grip and collapsed sideways, finding support in the next step and resting his bulk against the cold wall.
"Must - rest," he gasped, his head drooping with fatigue.
The light still lay ahead, illuminating the curve of the outer arch and sending shadows dancing across the steps. Somehow Hercules crawled up another step, driven by a sense of sudden anxiety. Where was Iolaus? Why wasn’t he there, offering his sturdy shoulder as support and grinning at the absurdity of his having to carry the son of Zeus for a change ...
"Iolaus?"
The word was barely a whisper. Pain and exhaustion sucked its speaker down into the unyielding edges of the shallow steps. Light flickered in front of his eyes, dancing and whirling in time to the thunder of his heart.
I just need to rest for a moment ...
He rolled over onto his back, tipping his head back to rest it against the cold stone. The steps rose above him, a daunting stairway leading to a halo of light. Shadows flickered within it, shadows without immediate form or substance. He blinked and looked again, trying to focus dark adjusted eyes. There were shadows moving up there - shadows that had long angular legs. Too many legs ...
He blinked a second time, watching in horrified alarm as the owner of those legs scuttled over the edge of the stairway and headed towards him. The sorcerous light rimmed a bloated body, painting a glimmer of colour in clustered eyes. It was a spider. A big one, its abdomen a good arm’s length long and its slender legs splayed out two or three times that distance.
Normally, such a sight wouldn’t have worried Hercules over much. On a good day he would have picked up one of the rocks that lay scattered around and squished the thing without hesitation. But he was completely exhausted; he barely had the strength to lift his head, let alone a rock - and this - this nightmare that was crawling down towards him had emerged from the light that should have heralded his best friend ...
The creature crept closer.
Its mandibles clacked softly, a gleam of poison dripping down the curved length of its fangs. Hercules could make out every hair, every glittering eye as it stepped down, closer and closer, taking its time, the shift of its legs rippling around its pulsing body as it made its way over the shattered rocks and down the shallow steps.
"Be still," he heard Orion whisper. The effort echoed in the Hunter’s voice, and the sound drew the spider’s attention; it reared up a little on its front legs, and let out a soft hiss.
When nothing followed, it dropped back down and continued its steady stalk.
Another step.
Another.
Hercules held his breath, trying to gather his strength as it returned to him.
If he moved, the thing would leap and strike. But if he didn’t -
"Hyyyah!"
A compact shadow suddenly pounced down the stairway, bouncing over the nightmare spider with an agile leap; the creature reared back, mandibles striking at empty air. A well directed foot slammed into its thorax, tipping it backwards to reveal a gleam of tender underbelly. A spinning kick spilled it onto its back.
The shadow dived forward after it, striking down hard, again and again.
The spider screamed.
Long and agonisingly.
Legs flailed in pained desperation. The body jerked once.
And finally it lay still, an ugly corpse, outlined in sickly fire.
"Missed one," Iolaus announced a little breathlessly. "Sorry ‘bout that. You know?" he observed to Orion, collapsing back against the gully wall beside him to regain his breath. "What you said about scorpions? Well - I hate spiders. Really hate ‘em. You okay, Herc?"
Hercules rolled onto his side and stared at him. The light from the torch was little more than a faint glow, but it was enough to cast the man in stark relief against the pitch darkness of the rock that supported him. His hair was damp with sweat and tousled into utter disarray. Strands of glistening silk were tangled into it - and around him, wrapping him in a network of threads that clung to skin and leather and cloth alike. And he was covered in blood. Dark, thick blood that smeared his arms, chest and face in gory profusion.
"Am I - ?" The son of Zeus was briefly lost for words. "Iolaus! Look at you. Were you bitten? Are you wounded? Is any of that blood yours?"
Iolaus grinned at him, a flash of light in the dimness. "No. No. And no," he answered smugly, leaning forward to lever himself off the rock. And stopped. With a startled jerk. "Damn!" He tugged a second time - and went absolutely nowhere. Hercules found himself swallowing an involuntary snort of laughter. Orion grinned, fighting down the same reaction. The warrior tugged harder, struggling like a hooked fish and having absolutely no effect at all. He was well and truly stuck: tethered to the rock by the remnants of the sticky web with which he was festooned.
The laughter bubbled up with unstoppable reaction. The Hunter began to quake with it, sitting on the steps and releasing a deep rumbling chuckle that he made no effort to suppress. And Hercules tipped his tired head back and roared, feeling all the desperate tension melt away, letting the laughter heal his battered spirit with far greater effect than any other remedy he might have applied.
"Very funny," Iolaus growled, starting to fold his arms with indignation and then realising - just in time - that that would just compound his situation. "Uhh - " He waved his hands helplessly, eliciting further chuckles from his audience - and finally succumbed to the ridiculousness of his position, leaning back with a resigned grin while the son of Zeus and the first Hound of Artemis lay in the dust and rubble and laughed and laughed until the tears came.
"I’m - I’m sorry, Iolaus," Hercules managed to gasp eventually. "It’s just that - "
"Yeah, yeah, I know," the tethered warrior sighed, a chagrined note in his voice. "Listen, uh - when you two have quite done laughing, would one of you mind giving me a hand here? Just in case something else nasty wanders by?"
The suggestion sobered both men abruptly. Orion climbed unsteadily to his feet and stared at the problem, reaching a tentative finger to the sticky residue that held the warrior captive and only retrieving it with an effort - along with a wince of pain from Iolaus since the strand he’d decided to test lay curled over bare skin. Hercules stayed where he was a moment longer, putting effort into thought rather than movement.
"Dirt," he said at last. Two shadowed faces looked at him in puzzlement. "We clog the glue with dirt - and it won’t be sticky any more. It’ll do until we can find a stream to clean you up in," he added appeasingly, since the idea had written a doubtful furrow across his friend’s brow. Iolaus held the suspicious stare a little longer, then quirked a quiet grin.
"A stream to clean us up in," he corrected wryly. "You looked at yourself lately, Herc?"
Hercules looked. He already was covered in dirt - a fine layer of rock dust and grit that clung to every curve and surface, from the abrasive texture it left on his skin through to the folds in his jerkin and the once gleaming finish of his gauntlets. Orion flashed him a smile, reaching down a hand to help him up. The Hunter was just as filthy, his ebony skin caked in the same insidious layer of grime.
The son of Zeus chuckled, levering his weary body upright with Orion’s help. He dipped his hand down, scooping up a palmful of pulverised rock, and stepped over to liberally ruffle it into his tethered partner’s hair.
"Hey," Iolaus protested with a laugh, trying to duck the attention and being brought up short by his own captivity. "Careful ..."
"Don’t wriggle," Hercules advised, using broad hands to apply copious amounts of sand and grit. Orion joined the task with enthusiasm, scooping up handfuls of the crumbled rock and crushing them to dust before smearing it over skin and leather with equal exuberance. Within a few short minutes the captive warrior was coated practically from head to foot. Hercules nodded to Orion; the two of them grabbed an arm apiece, and tugged.
Iolaus stifled a brief gasp of distress - and then the gooey mess that held him let go of the rock with a reluctant shhhluk. "Phew," he breathed, making no protest as Olympian hands rubbed yet more dirt and dust down his back. "Thanks, fellas. I think." He tipped his head back to shake some of the excess grit out of his hair - and froze, staring upwards with wide eyes.
"Hey, Herc," he whispered, his face lighting up with a broad and delighted grin. "Will ya take a look at that ..."
Hercules looked up.
The gully was narrow and the rock walls loomed on either side with shadowed weight. There was nothing above them but a thin strip of sky.
In which - one by one - the stars were coming out ...
"No, please. Spare us, mighty one." Dameas knelt at the sorcerer’s feet and shook, trembling with anxious fear. "We’re just artists. Poets. We’re no threat to you, I swear it ..."
"Shut up," Periphas drawled, putting out his foot and pushing the old man over so that he sprawled in an undignified heap. "I don’t want excuses. Or lies. Someone around here beat up a couple of my boys and I want ‘em, capice? I’ve already recruited those pathetic worms you called guards - and I’m gonna start recruiting citizens unless you start delivering. Understand?"
Dameas nodded fearfully. "Yes, mighty one. I understand perfectly. It’s just that - no, please - " He lifted his hands in helpless defense as the wizened creature that had invaded his city lowered his shimmering staff with deliberate menace. "It wasn’t any of us that destroyed your - your men. It was Hercules. Hercules and his partner. They’re the ones you want ..."
"Hercules?" Periphas frowned with puzzlement, stepping back to seat himself on the throne that now occupied centre stage in the rotunda. "Who in hades is Hercules?"
Dameas blinked at him in astonishment.
"You’ve never heard of - no, no, of course you haven’t. Hercules is - He’s - " The sculptor took a deep breath and tried to marshal his panic stricken thoughts. "Hercules is the son of Zeus by a mortal woman. He’s - he’s said to be the strongest man ever to walk the earth. He’s fought monsters and - and defied the gods, and - "
"Enough," the sorcerer interrupted, feigning a mock yawn behind his withered hand. It wasn’t as withered as it had once been. The troop of gray faced soldiers that now stood behind his throne were a ghastly testament to that. "This guy’s a hero, right?" He turned to glance at his Lieutenant, a tall, gangly skeleton that wore a crested helmet and which had taken up the place of honour at its master’s side. "I know the type. Tall, strong, handsome - muscles between the ears and a stubborn streak a league wide?" He grinned, using the staff to tap the skeletal figure’s breastbone. "Like Trago, here. He thought he could defy me. Tried to drag my staff out of my hands. So I dragged his soul up it. Schloop! Just like that. Served me faithfully ever since, ain’t ya, Trago?" The creature’s jaw dropped in a parody of silent laughter and Periphas chuckled with evil delight. "Oh yeah. I know all about heroes. And how to deal with ‘em. You!" His finger pointed at the quivering sculptor with imperious command. "Go find this - Hercules - and tell him I wanna see him. And that - for every hour he keeps me waiting - I’m gonna add another notch to my staff. Get it?"
Dameas swallowed. Hard.
"Yes, mighty one. I understand. I’ll bring him to you, right away. I swear I will. Please - don’t hurt any more of my people ..."
"My people, old man," the sorcerer corrected confidently. "Dinæ belongs to me now. Just like you. So get, okay? Before I change my mind ..."
The sculptor scrambled to his feet and hastened away, unable to help a fearful backwards glance as he ran. Periphas leaned back into the throne and smiled knowingly.
"A hero, Trago. One that’s only half mortal, if that old man is to be believed. A soul like that will be a real feast, don’t you think? Enough to restore all my strength and allow me to truly live again. Without the need for our lady’s cloak - or the help of her power, come to that. A son of Zeus born of mortal flesh? I bet that ticked her off no end." His smile widened with anticipatory pleasure. "And I get the pleasure of turning him into toast.
"I just knew this was gonna be a good night ..."
"Hercules! Oh gods, Hercules!"
The call was a wild one, filled with equal relief and desperation. The son of Zeus looked up from his ablutions to find Dameas running towards him, the old man’s face written with horror and anguish. "Dameas?" Hercules strode out of the shallow stream and frowned as the artist stumbled the last few yards and collapsed at his feet. "What is it? What’s happened?"
Dameas was gasping for breath, his lungs heaving with unaccustomed effort. "Peri - Periph - Periphas," he managed eventually, struggling for air and composure. Hercules picked him up and sat him on a nearby outcropping of rock, steadying him while he wrestled to regain his equilibrium.
"Trouble?" Iolaus inquired, wading out of the stream to join his partner. A determined twist squeezed the last of the excess water from his sodden waistcoat and he shook it out and slid it back onto his shoulders as he strode across to join his friends. The son of Zeus nodded.
"Sounds like it," he said. "Take it easy, Dameas. Long slow breaths."
The artist did as he suggested, regaining a little of his dignity in the process. His fingers stroked nervously at his beard, restoring its tangles to order. "You have to - leave," he started to say, still panting for breath, then paused to stare, frowning as he tried, unsuccessfully, to fathom out why the two of them were dripping wet.
"Leave?" Iolaus echoed, shaking excess moisture out of his hair like the Hound that Artemis had named him. Further down the bank a literal Hound was doing much the same. Orion’s wolfhound form was much better equipped to shed water than his human one, and Hercules might have smiled at the sight - had he not been so worried about the distraught artist and his puzzling advice. "We were on our way to start the victory party."
"No," Dameas reacted, dismissing his confusion in favour of more immediate issues. His hand clasped Hercules’ wrist with determination. "If you go back to Dinæ, you’ll die."
Now that got their attention. The son of Zeus hunkered down to meet the old man’s eyes, his face dropping into lines of anxiety. Iolaus frowned and turned to whistle for Hunter; the dog loped up to join them with easy strides. "Die?" Hercules inquired. The artist was in a fearful state. He was trembling violently and his eyes were wild, reflecting the flicker of sorcerous light that lit the clearing.
"He - he came. Two - three hours ago. Down from his place on the mountain. The dead - the dead marched at his command. And when - when," he gulped desperately, "when the guard tried to defend the gate he - he - he took their souls ..." He finished with a sob, dropping his head into his hands and fighting for self control. Hercules reached to clasp his shoulder, offering concerned support.
This sounds bad ...
He glanced up at his partner, whose expression clearly mirrored the thought. Iolaus offered him a bare shrug, one of the so what’s new? kind that somehow managed to acknowledge the problem, accept it as dangerous and affirm his support all in one go. They’d both known this wasn’t over yet.
"Tell us," Hercules suggested gently. Dameas shuddered.
"I’m not sure - he has a - a staff. When it touches you it - it drags the soul right out of a man. I saw - I saw Lebus fall. He was dead. I know he was. Except that - that - he got up and - and ..."
"Easy." The man’s distress added to the horror of his words. He’d been badly shaken by his experience, that much was certain. "Just take it easy. You said it was Periphas. Are you sure?"
The artist nodded, reaching to clasp at Hercules’ arm. "You have to leave here, Hercules. He - he wants you dead. For what you did to his people. He’ll kill you. And then - then you’ll serve him. The way - the way the others do ..."
"Others?" Iolaus questioned warily. Dameas threw him a frightened look.
"They’re all dead," he choked. "Nothing but bones. Walking bones ..."
Those skeletons we faced ...
Things were beginning the make sense. Periphas had been freed from his prison - along with those of the dead that had been buried with him. The power that Hera had sent him would be more than enough to animate such an army - and the more souls he took, the greater his own power would become.
"We have to stop this," Hercules decided grimly. Dameas’ grip tightened with terror.
"No," he denied anxiously. "Save yourself. My city is doomed ..."
"Not while I can help it," the son of Zeus interrupted firmly. "Iolaus?"
His partner shrugged a second time. "Well - " he began, and Orion stood up between them, looking down at the startled artist with a grim smile.
"Hercules deal with sorcerer," he announced confidently. His eyes flicked towards his fellow hunter and the smile widened into feral pleasure. "Leave bones to Hounds ..."
"Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored." Periphas leant back into his hastily assembled throne and sighed a petulant sigh. "What’s keeping that guy?" He reached out with his staff and poked the corpse that lay tumbled at his feet. It stirred uncertainly, then climbed to its feet with stiff and discoordinated movements. The sorcerer dismissively jerked his thumb over his right shoulder and the dead man walked round to join the rest of the deathly assembly that were gathered at their master’s back. "You! Yes, you." The conqueror’s withered hand had picked out one of Dinæ’s elders from where they huddled at the edge of the amphitheatre. The man approached with reluctance, quivering with terror and glancing back at his fellow council members as he did so. They encouraged him forward with hesitant gestures then cowered back as the movement attracted the sorcerer’s attention.
"Hey," Periphas drawled generously. "Don’t sweat it, fellas. I like ‘em young and healthy. So you old goats are safe enough. At least," he added thoughtfully, "until you do something to piss me off ..."
The elder arrived at his feet - literally; he dropped to his knees and genuflected right down to the floor.
"Now, you got the idea. Listen up - this artist friend of yours - Dimwit or whatever his name is - he promised me he’d get this Hercules fella to show up. Only he ain’t. And I am so disappointed because I really wanted to meet him. And eat him," he added sliding his hand thoughtfully up and down the polished surface of his staff. "So here’s the deal. You go round up Hercules - and this Dimwit character - and I won’t make that pretty piece of work you call your daughter my next recruit. Just my next wife. ‘Bout time I got married again ..."
The man looked up with terror, his whole body shaking. "Spare her," he begged. "I’ll do anything - "
"Yeah, you will," the sorcerer chuckled, leaning back into the throne and glancing at Trago’s skeleton where it stood attentively beside him. "They all do. Eventually."
The stark white skull nodded sagely, then paused, lifting to stare distractedly at the sky as if it’s owner had just been struck by a worrying thought. Periphas threw his Lieutenant an impatient scowl.
"I know," he acknowledged. "But listen - I’m a big boy now. I don’t need her help any more. I figure she knew that, left me to make my own mark. Not that I ain’t grateful," he added hastily, shooting a glance at the place where several of his zombie cohorts were erecting a makeshift altar. "I keep my promises. But once I get this Hercules on my side I won’t have a thing to worry about. And don’t you go worrying about the sun either. Once I’ve recruited that son of Zeus this baby will be so packed with power I’ll summon my own darkness whenever I need it. Now," he turned back to the quivering elder, "you know what you gotta do?"
The man nodded, almost to terrified to speak. "Find - Hercules - "
"No need," a new voice interjected dryly. "I’m right here ..."
Periphas spun to his left. The son of Zeus stood beneath the arch of the actors entrance, the torchlight painting his features with a sheen of gold.
"So you’re the mighty Hercules." The sorcerer rose to his feet and looked his visitor up and down with admiration. "Beautiful. Just - beautiful." His head flicked in his Lieutenant’s direction. "Fetch him over here, Trago. Looks like you got yourself a new second in command."
Trago’s bony jaw dropped, expressing silent laughter. His bony fingers gestured - and the rest of his skeletal troop stirred into a parody of life, emerging from behind the ranks of the newly dead to advance on Hercules with studied menace. The quivering elder started to scuttle away, only to be pinned as Periphas slammed his staff down into the small of his back. "Guess I won’t be needed you no more," the sorcerer decided, feigning regret - and casually yanked the man’s soul right out of his body.
Hercules took a half step backwards at the sight, earning himself a knowing leer from the perpetrator of the deed. "Come on," the withered figure beckoned mockingly. "Ya don’t wanna keep me waiting, do ya?"
A lithe figure bounced down the shallow steps of the amphitheatre, snatching a burning torch out of a sconce as he ran past. A blond haired, compact warrior, who clearly possessed more bravado than sense. Periphas barely spared him a glance, dismissing the new arrival with a sneer of disdain. He fed his power with the souls of heroes - not stunted excuses for them. "Go for it, Herc," the small man called, leaping into place between the son of Zeus and one half of the advancing army. "I’ll keep these guys busy." He swung the torch as he spoke, forcing the nearest skeleton to take a reactive step backwards - straight into the dead warrior behind it. Bone limbs tangled and a pitted axe tumbled to the marbled floor.
"Idiots!" the sorcerer snapped with impatience. He frowned at his Lieutenant. "Deal with that. And someone fetch me that son of Zeus!"
Hercules had been unsure as to what he would find when he walked into the amphitheatre, since Dameas’s descriptions had been disjointed and coloured with emotion. He’d already faced three of the skeletal warriors that had left the darkness of the tomb with their master, and he knew there would be more of them. But so many? And what of the grey faced creatures that shuffled behind their new master? He hadn’t expected there would be so many of them, either. The sorcerer had obviously been busy.
It was only after he witnessed the callous theft of the elder’s soul that Hercules understood what he had been busy doing - along with the heart clenching certainty that he had to be stopped.
The creature Dameas had named Trago galvanised into action at his master’s command. It had a surprising turn of speed for something that had been dead for centuries, as well as a remarkable grasp of tactics; it motioned the remaining group of skeletons forward, dispatching them to meet their creator’s request, then headed straight for Iolaus at a run, lifting its sword with confidence.
Hercules glanced in his partner’s direction. Iolaus was busy doing just as he promised - keeping the enemy busy, dancing around and ducking their feints and blows with relish. He’d snatched up the tumbled axe for his own defence and was using it to hook bony legs and bring their owners tumbling to the floor. The torch kept the rest at bay while he picked his next victim - but it was a chancy set of tactics and wouldn’t stand up to overwhelming odds.
Where in Hades is Orion?
The answer wasn’t long in coming. One moment there was a group of fifteen armoured dead men advancing towards him, and the next they’d been scattered in all directions, taken out by the arrival of a four footed ballista bolt. Massive jaws closed, a dark head lifted - and there were only fourteen skeletons left in the group, the first to go snatched up by the spine and shaken apart like so much firewood.
"Stee-rike," Orion announced with glee, unfolding into human form and launching into direct attack.
Leave bones to the Hounds ...
It had sounded like a good idea at the time - to let Iolaus and Orion deal with the dead while he waded in and handled the sorcerer that had given them their unnatural life. The Hunter was clearly in his element, pursing the fight with enthusiasm; he, like all of Artemis’ dedicated followers, would be committed to the maintenance of life’s natural order - and there was nothing more unnatural than a warrior’s bones fighting on long after he was supposed to be dead. Still, Hercules hesitated before he moved. His partner might well be a Hound of Artemis. But he was still mortal - and the odds were stacked against him ...
"Herc!" Iolaus’s protest was an indignant one - delivered with breathless effort and the barest hint of wild laughter. "You’re not here to - admire the - scenery!"
The sound of cracking bones accompanied the words - which were more than enough to refocus the distracted son of Zeus and set his mind to the task in hand. He should know better than to worry about Iolaus this early in a fight. And the sooner he dealt with Periphas, the sooner the fight would be over. For all of them.
He strode forward and attracted attention. Two of the leering warriors turned and started to head towards him - one from either side. They dropped their weapons and reached, no doubt intending to capture him as their master had commanded. That made it almost too easy. He reached back, plunging his arms past angled ribcages and seized a knobbly spine in either hand. Then he lifted, swinging his captives together as if they were a pair of cymbals. Bits of bone flew everywhere. Ancient armour disintegrated. A helmet met a brittle surface and the skull of one dead warrior imploded into dust. The rest of the skeleton collapsed entirely, leaving Hercules with one hand clenched on a remnant of bone and half a corpse dangling from the other. A distraught corpse, which wriggled like a hooked fish.
"Guess they lacked the backbone for a fight," Hercules quipped, brushing the shards of one from his hand and throwing the other away. The still struggling figure flew across the rotunda - and scythed down five of its fellows, who fell in a tangled heap.
"Thanks," Iolaus called, ducking under the sweep of Trago’s sword blade and planting a directed kick into the pelvis of the dead warrior behind him. Three of the five had been in the front row advancing on him.
"Any time," Hercules called back, dodging to avoid a skeleton that had danced back from Orion’s side of the amphitheatre. He caught that one by the spine too - and it went flying, flattening the struggling heap that was still trying to reach Iolaus.
"Hey!" the golden haired warrior protested, blocking yet another of Trago’s blows with the shaft of the torch and desperately leaping the sword blade that swung at his feet. "I don’t need any more over here!"
"Sorry ..."
The son of Zeus strode forward. Two more of the creatures peeled away from the chaotic conflict and moved to intercept him, one armed with sword and shield, the other with a long handled pike. Hercules dodged back as the pike lanced towards his ribs, grabbing at the shaft and giving it a determined tug. The pike slid out of its wielder’s bony fingers. A sword slashed down, the edge meeting aged wood. The pike shaft snapped in two - and Hercules was left with two short clubs, one in either hand.
He looked down at the jagged ends, shrugged, and moved into the attack, using his newly acquired weapons to drive his opponents backwards. The dead warriors were hard work. He broke bones, cracked ribs, and practically had to take them both apart piece by piece. They still kept up their assault, dancing around him and driving him closer to the throne and the wizened figure that occupied it.
He didn’t mind that. That was where he was going anyway.
"Call them off," he suggested to the watching sorcerer, parrying sword blows and cracking a knee joint with a well aimed kick. Periphas chuckled.
"As if," he sneered. "Listen - hero - the giant, I’ll give ya. But the runt? You cannot be serious! My boys’ll eat him for breakfast."
"Don’t count on it," Hercules growled tightly. Somewhere to his right there was a sharp crack, followed by the staccato sound of a rain of bones hitting a stone floor. He heard Iolaus give a soft whoop of triumph - and then a gasp of pain as something got under his guard. "Call them off."
"Uhuh." The sorcerer stood up, smoothing down his tattered robes with a disdainful hand. "You call them off. And I might let one of ‘em live. Might. The little guy maybe. Trago seems to like playing with him ..."
Another crunch echoed across the enclosed space. Orion’s voice grunted satisfaction. Hercules lifted both his makeshift clubs and rammed them together, either side of a grinning skull. The skull shattered. What remained of the creature fell apart instantly. Periphas winced.
"I can make more," he dismissed, not sounding quite as confident as he had a moment ago. The son of Zeus grimaced his opinion of that idea, jamming one end of the broken pike up between damaged ribs and lifting as he did so. The creature fought to get free, writhing with desperation. Hercules jerked it over his shoulder with a heroic heave - and it smashed against the marble floor, disintegrating into a myriad shards of bone.
"I don’t - think so," he gasped, rounding on the sorcerer with determination.
"Hey," Periphas reacted, spreading his hands in a generous gesture. "I got a good deal going here." An evil smile curved across his face. "Let me cut you in on the action ..." He moved faster than seemed possible in his wizened state, leaping down from the raised area around the throne and thrusting his staff forward in attack. Hercules acted without thinking. His hands reached out and grabbed for the gleaming length, just as he had seized the pike earlier.
"Good boy," the sorcerer grinned triumphantly. "Come to papa ..."
The moment his hands closed around the staff Hercules knew he’d made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Pain lanced through every fibre of the hero’s frame. A sucking, tearing pain that buckled his knees and tipped his head back in a howl of agony.
Noooo!
Light flared around his hands, binding them to the staff. He was on fire, his whole body quivering as he desperately fought to be free. He could not let go. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe.
And the light of death began to wreath its way down his arms, on its way to tear his soul apart ...
Iolaus was not having fun.
He ducked another sweep of Trago’s sword and dodged the pitted axe that swung in from behind him, spinning to thrust the burning torch into the grinning rictus of the nearest skull. There were too many of them, and they just would not take the hint ...
Bar room brawls - now they were fun. A whole bunch of half drunk ruffians desperately in need of being taught a lesson was the perfect way to get a good workout. The look of astonishment on a brute’s face as this little guy took him down was always worth the effort. And the fact that he was likely to get as good as he gave in such a melee just upped the buzz he got out of it. He loved to rumble. Particularly when the day could be won by the inflicting of a few bruises and massive amounts of humiliation. That was his kind of fight, one pursued with enthusiasm, the nearest weapon to hand, and the outcome either one where he watched the bad guys scramble for the exit - or where he did, reluctant, but able to cut and run if the odds really turned against him.
Unless, of course, he got himself into trouble he couldn’t get out of - like six or more ganging up on him at once - or an opponent got in a lucky blow or two. That usually resulted in him waking up with Hercules tipping a bucket of cold water over his head and giving him that look he was so good at. The one that said - with affection and amusement - Oh, Iolaus. When are you ever going to learn?
Over twenty years of fighting back to back against overwhelming odds. Almost thirty facing up to bullies with bold defiance.
If he hadn’t learnt by now, he doubted he was ever going to.
But usually it was fun.
This wasn’t.
He’d enjoyed his fight with that first bunch of Periphas’s unnatural goons. It had been a rush, taking his opponent apart piece by piece. There had been just enough challenge in it to burn up all that misplaced adrenaline that had been building up during his walk in the dark. He’d been reasonably fresh back then, only a little weary from a long day’s walk.
But he hadn’t stopped to rest since; it had been nearly eighteen hours since the earthquake and he’d been on the move since it happened. Facing down scorpions, spiders and those - whatever they had been - up on the mountain. Right now, he was surrounded by death; by a macabre dance of gleaming bones and grinning skulls. They took blows that would cripple a living opponent and just came back for more. And he was getting tired.
Bone tired ...
He cracked a weary grin at the thought. He didn’t have time to be tired. If he let his guard down now, then he’d be asleep a very long time indeed.
Trago came at him again, and he barely dodged the lightning flick of his sword.
Does this guy never give up?
Of course he didn’t. He was dead. He didn’t have muscles screaming fatigue at him, or lungs that protested at every breath. He didn’t even breathe.
Damnit. Hurry up, willya, Herc?
He swung the torch round, creating himself a little space in which to take a breath. He was backed up against the steps now, their cold marble rising behind him in serried rows. If he could just gain a little height ...
The deed followed almost before the thought was complete. He leapt round and bounded up the steps two at a time. The horde hammered after him, bone feet clattering against the stone. But now he had the advantage. Eight steps up he spun round and kicked out, knocking the nearest skeleton backwards with a directed blow. It tumbled over, completely off balance and took at least four of its comrades with it. One deathly white skull hit the unyielding edge of a step and the rest of the skeleton disintegrated, scattering the marble with hazardous debris.
"Wahhhoo!"
Iolaus allowed himself a jubilant whoop. Maybe this was fun, after all ...
Then the sweep of Trago’s sword slashed across his ribs, painting a line of pain after it. He twisted instinctively, escaping the follow through more by luck than judgement, and dived sideways, the move bouncing him back down four of the steps that he’d just assailed.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Pay attention, Hero.
He collided with a pillar. One that rocked and then toppled over as he hit it. Something plummeted towards him and he loosed both torch and axe to lift his hands in desperate defence. A heavy shape landed between them - and he was staring in bemusement at the carved bust that he’d knocked from its pedestal. A stylised bust of Zephyrus, god of peaceful winds and weather.
Now he’s gonna be a lot of help!
He nearly tossed it away - before he realised what he’d got hold of, and grinned.
Waait a minute here ...
An athletic flip lifted him back to his feet. Trago was advancing on him again, flanked by at least five of his cohorts. More were rallying below, milling around as they pondered strategy. On the other side of the amphitheatre, Orion was wrestling with death, ripping dead arms from bony sockets with gusto. And in the middle, Hercules had almost reached his goal, only one skeletal warrior now standing between him and the sorcerer.
Way to go, Herc!
He turned his attention back to more immediate matters. Like the dead swordsman who was stalking towards him, his jaw open in an anticipatory parody of a grin. "Hey," Iolaus panted, trying to catch his breath. "It’s been fun. Know what I mean?"
And he hefted the carved bust up to his shoulder - only to toss it, hard, into the advancing ranks.
Trago’s ribcage shattered under the impact. His spine broke and his pelvis cracked into three pieces. His torso tumbled to the floor, his arms flailing wildly.
"Yes!" Iolaus crowed. He bounded along the shallow step and snatched up the next bust from its pillar. There was a whole line of them parading around the circumference of the amphitheatre. He didn’t know what patient soul had carefully replaced them after the earthquake, but he was grateful for it. Very grateful.
Boreas went flying after his brother. Two more skeletons bit dust. Helios, Hyperion and a couple of gods he didn’t immediately recognise followed in rapid succession. The remaining warriors actually backed off a little when he hefted up the next one. He glanced down at it with distracted curiosity, to find himself holding halfway familiar features carved into a very familiar sneer. "Hello, Ares," he noted with a small grin. "Never thought I’d be beholden to you ..."
The scream of agony jerked his head up in alarm. The sight that met his eyes clenched a tight band of terror around his heart. "Herc? Oh gods. Hercules!"
Ares’s bust went tumbling, bouncing down the steps and bowling several advancing skeletons completely off their feet. Iolaus didn’t even see it happen. He was already moving, fear adding impetus to his speed. He ran - not forwards, since to do that would have merely hastened his own death and done nothing to help his friend - but sideways, around the curve of the amphitheatre.
"Orion!" he yelled as he ran, not even pausing to skirt the actors’ entrance but crossing it in one long reckless and headlong leap. "Orion!"
The Hunter turned at the call, throwing the dead warrior that had been struggling to strangle him aside with ease.
"Halzia," Iolaus gasped as he vaulted down the steps to join him, desperately hoping the demi-god would remember the manoeuvre. "Get me over there. And fast!"
Orion glanced towards the stark tableaux that occupied centre stage in the rotunda, then back, his expression settling into grim lines. "Quicker," he decided, cupping his hands into a stirrup and bending a little at the knees. Iolaus didn’t hesitate. His next step brought him level with the Hunter; the one after that was planted firmly and confidently into those broad hands.
Orion lifted, throwing his fellow hound into the air with all his might. Skeletons looked up in startlement as the compact figure flew over their heads with a wild war cry, twisting and somersaulting to get the best angle of attack. Periphas was standing poised over his victim, the light from his staff wreathing them both in dazzling fire. His face was creased in concentration; the son of Zeus was clearly not prepared to surrender his soul without some kind of fight.
"Hooo- wwahhh!"
Iolaus struck feet first, slamming both his heels into the sorcerer’s shoulder and extending his legs as he did so. Periphas went flying. The staff went flying. And Hercules dropped to his hands and knees with a gasp, panting for breath and completely disorientated.
The tumbling warrior hit the floor hard and rolled over several times before he collided with the huddle of zombie citizens that still lurked behind their master’s throne. Clammy hands clutched at him, but he wriggled free, scuttling across the ornate mosaic in pursuit of the abandoned staff. It had clattered to a halt at the foot of the makeshift altar and he reached it barely seconds before Periphas’s groping hand could claim it.
"You’ll pay for that," the sorcerer screeched, clutching at Iolaus’s ankle as he dragged the staff out of its master’s reach. The staff itself burned his hand, searing into skin as if it were red hot.
"Ow," the warrior protested, dropping the thing as the pain registered. He kicked at the withered hand that clutched at him and scrambled after the staff a second time. "Ow. Ow. Ow." He managed to regain his knees, juggling the artefact between his hands and grimacing each time he touched it.
"Gimme that!" Periphas howled, launching himself forward with desperation. He knocked Iolaus over, his apparently frail frame possessing a surprising amount of strength. One wizened hand clamped tight around a tanned throat. The other groped for the staff, which had clattered back to the ground.
Oh no, you don’t ...
The pinned warrior wriggled like a hooked fish, kicking the staff away from the groping hand while he fought to pry the other free. The sorcerer tightened his grip, pressing bony fingers deep into taut muscle and trying to crush what lay beneath. Iolaus had both hands wrapped around that withered wrist, but he couldn’t stop the inexorable pressure. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs screamed. His senses swum. There was a red curtain descending over everything ...
"Iolaus?"
That was Hercules, somewhere behind the roaring sound that filled his ears. Desperately he reached out, his hand closing over the incandescent agony of the staff, and he used the last of his strength to lift it - to throw it in the direction of that anxious sound.
"Herc - " he tried to say. Nothing came out of his throat but a strangled croak - one that the furious sorcerer silenced with a squeeze of his fingers ...
The pain was unbearable. Cold fingers with razor sharp edges dragged their way through his entire being, shredding his soul and ripping his existence into pieces. His hands were clamped to the fire of the staff, and he tried to focus his attentions there, determined to break that contact, fighting to tear himself free.
His senses swum with the agony of his struggle. He gritted his teeth and he closed his eyes, the muscles in his neck and shoulders bunching into taut cords of steel as, slowly and resolutely, he wrestled to lift his fingers from the white hot surface of the staff. Still the pressure built inside him, eating at his perceptions, draining away his strength. His lungs refused to draw breath. His heart was beating like a battle drum ...
"Hooo- wwahhh!"
The cry was little more than a distant echo. He barely heard it. But one moment he was nothing but a single scream, dipped in molten fire, and the next he was somehow free of the assault, gasping, and dizzy, but definitely himself.
He dropped to his hands, the coolness of the marble floor striking up through his pain deadened palms. Lights danced in front of his eyes, pulsing in and out with nauseating irregularity. For a long moment he could do nothing but struggle for breath, feeling his blood race and his heart pound.
Gods ...
The mosaic pattern of the rotunda slowly coalesced before his unfocused eyes. Somewhere, close by, a familiar voice was uttering yelps of pain.
"Ow. Ow!"
Iolaus?
Hercules lifted his head with an effort. He was in time to see a grey blur launch itself at an equally blurred gold and purple shape. He blinked and shook his head, trying to drive a little more of the fuzz from his mind. The blurs resolved themselves into a scuffle of figures; Iolaus, pinned to the floor and struggling, and Periphas, lying across him, with one hand clamped around the lithe warrior’s throat while the other groped for the staff that lay just beyond his reach.
Oh, no ...
He struggled determinedly to his feet, reaching inside himself for that deep reserve of strength that was both his inheritance and his burden. He knew what had happened now. Knew that his partner had been the one to break that torturous contact, and preventing the sorcerer from completing his evil intent. Knew, too, that Iolaus had undoubtedly leapt before he looked, diving in feet first to a situation he had no time to measure, only judge. Only a fool - or a hero - would tackle an insane sorcerer with nothing but his feet and his fists. Hercules was only too aware that, for once, he’d been the fool. And that Artemis had not named his sword brother Hero for nothing ...
"Iolaus?" he gasped, still wrestling for his equilibrium. Hang on, buddy, he wanted that word to say. I’ll be there as soon as I can ...
Trouble was, that might not be soon enough. Iolaus was going an interesting colour - and Periphas was pressing home his attack with maniacal resolve. If Hercules didn’t pull himself together and soon, then he would have failed his friend for the second time that day.
And this time, Orion was too far away to come to the rescue ...
Damnit!
Anger flared through his soul, welding its shredded tatters back into furious certainty. He was the son of Zeus, for Olympus’ sake! And he wasn’t about to let any small time, has-been tyrant with a little bit of sorcerous power succeed in doing what both Hera and her martial son had been trying to do for years.
Kill his best friend ...
He drew in a deep breath and - with it - summoned all the divine strength that he’d ever been gifted with. His back straightened. His shoulders lifted. His eyes flashed with determined fire and his fist went out with a sideways swipe that completely bowled over the two skeletal warriors that had been creeping up on his right side.
"Her -" Iolaus gasped out a strangled croak that Periphas silenced almost before it began. But his hand had groped out, his finger closing over the end of the discarded staff - and one last desperate jerk lifted it from the floor to throw it, end over end, to where Hercules was waiting.
Everything fell into slow motion.
The sorcerer abandoned his murderous attack with a howl of anger and alarm. He turned, his hands scrambling to intercept the staff’s balletic tumble. Withered fingers closed on empty air. His cry of frustration turned every dead head in the assembly in his direction.
Hercules reached out with confidence. The staff spun towards him, a shimmering length of evil light that flew straight into his outreached hand. He closed his fingers over it with a snap - and Periphas froze in place as if he’d suddenly become an image carved from stone.
"No ... " he whispered, his face going whiter than the bones of his fearful servants.
Hercules paid no attention to the impact of heat that seared into his palm. He swung the staff over so that he could grasp it with the other hand - and in one smooth, certain motion, brought the thing down hard across his knee.
"Nooooo!"
The staff snapped with a sound like thunder.
Light flared out of it with a dazzling brilliance that jerked its destroyer’s eyes shut and his head away. His hands convulsed as the energy discharged through them, and he let the pieces fall almost without realising he’d done so. At the same time he was forced to take a step backwards as every soul the staff had ever stolen found release; they surged out of the enchanted wood like sparks from a firework, cascading upwards in a fountain of light.
Periphas moaned with pain, a sound wrenched from the depths of Tarterus. The souls danced around him, eluding his groping hands, then soared away, some vanishing into the dawn streaked sky, others wreathing their way back to their rightful owners. One by one the grey faced zombies jerked and reacted as their stolen souls returned home; grey flesh resumed a healthier pink and the murdered citizens of Dinæ blinked in bewilderment at their resurrected neighbours.
The army of the dead were not so fortunate. Souls did return to those few that remained, but it was with a convulsive impact that their ancient bones could not withstand. One by one they shattered into dust - and as each one fell it left a brief impression of the man it might have been, raising his sword in grateful salute as he was finally allowed to take his final journey.
Looks like Hades is going to be busy today ...
There was one soul though that the Lord of the Dead would not be entering into his books - not that day, in any event. Hercules had lowered his hands and blinked his light dazzled eyes to find his partner groggily lifting himself up on one gauntleted forearm while he coughed and gasped for much needed air. His other hand was warily massaging his abused throat and he was staring wide eyed at the remnants of the firework display.
The son of Zeus let out a slow and heart felt breath of relief.
Thank the Fates for that.
He suspected that surviving so many close calls in less than twenty four hours had probably set some kind of record. Even for Iolaus ...
"So you think you’ve won, huh?"
Periphas had hauled himself to his feet and now staggered across to the makeshift altar, clinging to it for support. His eyes flashed evil fire as he turned to face his vanquishers. "I ain’t finished yet," he growled. "I made that staff and I can make another. Still a few tricks left up my sleeve."
His hands began to move through a complicated motion, shaping and summoning power as they did so. Darkness started to boil up between his palms and Hercules hastily glanced around for something with which he might possibly defend himself.
Here we go again ...
"Hercules!"
Orion’s call drew his attention; his sideways glance registered a circular shape spinning through the air towards him and he reached to intercept it more by instinct than anything else. His hands closed on cold metal, and he lifted the shape up like a shield, extending it ahead of him just as Periphas’s angular hands unleashed the rolling lightning that his power had summoned between them.
The bolt seared across the distance, a leap of light and energy aimed with deadly intent.
It hit the polished surface of the bronze tray.
Bounced.
And caught the sorcerer on its rebound, lifting him up and throwing him through the altar his minions had been building. Hastily stacked stone scattered in all directions. Periphas hit the floor and went on sliding for several feet; he finally slewed to a halt against the rising steps on the other side of the rotunda.
Right at the point where the first fingers of dawn had groped their way over the edge of the amphitheatre and were painting their passage down the serried ranks of marble onto the mosaic floor.
The dead man screamed.
Hercules lowered his makeshift shield and watched as the sorcerer made an effort to stand up, to crawl away, but it was as if the pale sunlight held him pinned. His wizened body writhed in desperate pain as the sun’s warmth ate into his unnatural form. Smoke began to curl around him. His hands clawed at the stone, reaching to drag his agonised body free of the torture, but they found no purchase on the gleaming stone.
"Damn you. Damn you all!" he howled.
Smoke became flickers of flame. Periphas was wreathed in it, a bright, eager fire that consumed him mercilessly. His howl became a hiss, and then a long drawn in gasp. He fought feebly for escape as the flesh vanished from his bones. Skeletal fingers lifted. pointing with angry accusation, only for the bones to tumble away. Within moments he was nothing but dust.
And after that, nothing at all.
Hercules breathed out a slow sigh of relief. So much for him, he considered thankfully. This one had been close - and he knew he wouldn’t have survived it, had it not been for the generosity of the Fates.
And a little help from the Hounds of Artemis.
Well - two of them, anyway ...
A small and ragged cheer greeted him as he turned; a tide of grateful citizens surged forwards to thank him, kicking the shattered remnants of old bones aside as they did so. Hercules acknowledged their gratitude distractedly. He was more concerned with making sure his friends were both okay, and he pushed through the crowd, suddenly anxious that he couldn’t locate either of them.
"We don't know how to thank you ..."
"Hercules, if it wasn’t for you ..."
"You showed that evil creature ..."
"That was amazing ... "
"Whoa!" he called, silencing the chorus with a determined gesture. "Just hold on a moment. I didn’t win this fight all by myself. Dameas - have you seen Iolaus? He was right here a moment ago."
The artist - who had been busy smiling with relief at all of his friends and neighbours - glanced around with a frown. "I don’t see - oh ..." His grin was both spontaneous and warm. Hercules followed the line of his gaze and broke into a broad grin of his own.
Iolaus was sitting - no, make that sprawled - in Periphas’ makeshift throne, one hand abstractly massaging his bruised throat, his other arm draped over the flanks of the huge wolfhound that had curled round behind him to make a unlikely cushion for his weary frame. Hunter’s head was resting comfortably in the warrior’s lap - and the animal was being petted with a gentle hand by at least three of the wide eyed young women who were gathered around the pair.
"How does he do that?" Hercules asked of the general air. He didn’t get an answer, nor did he expect one. He chuckled instead and strode across to stand in front of the throne, attracting attention with a discreet and amused cough. The women parted like magic, several of them turning admiring eyes in his direction. He manfully ignored the looks and smiled down at his partner instead
"Hey, Herc," Iolaus croaked in greeting, lifting his hand in an idle wave. His voice was a mangled parody of his usual golden tones and little more than a whisper in volume. But his grin lacked none of its expected brilliance and that was decidedly reassuring.
"You okay?"
Golden locks nodded in response, their owner heaving a careful sigh. Yeah, Iolaus mouthed, sharing a look that spoke volumes.
Another of those unspoken conversations ...
This one was tough, huh? Why do we do this - no, don’t answer that. I know the answer.
Hercules’ response was both apologetic and grateful.
You didn’t have to come with me, you know. But I’m real glad you did. And I’m glad you’re okay ...
The apology was dismissed with shrug, the gratitude accepted with an embarrassed tilt of the head.
Hey. There’s no need for that. Besides, the grin added with decided mischief, you really think I’d miss all the fun?
The son of Zeus chuckled softly. "Thanks," he said quietly, then added after a beat. "To both of you."
Iolaus echoed the chuckle - and clearly regretted it. The wolfhound lifted its head, wagged its tail and let out a soft and breathy whuff that might have been a laugh.
"Hercules! Hercules!" Dameas appeared at his side, pushing a wine cup into his hands. "The elders wanted me to ask - if you’d be staying for a few days. Not that we’re not already deep in your debt, but - we could really do with your help in the reconstruction work ..."
Hercules smiled. "Sure," he answered, almost embarrassed that they’d thought they had to ask. "You know," he observed, sharing the thought with his partner, "wasn’t that why we came here in the first place?"
Iolaus was fighting down a yawn; he nodded a weary confirmation.
"Thank you," the artist said, clasping Hercules’ arm with a grateful hand. "Thank you. Dinæ has lived in Periphas’ shadow for far too long."
"No more," the son of Zeus stated firmly. "He’s Hades’ problem now. Not yours. Right, Iolaus?"
There was no answer. Not even a grunt. Hercules glanced towards the throne with sudden concern, only to relax with a broad grin.
The events of a very long night had finally caught up with his sword brother.
And Iolaus - his head pillowed by the muscular shoulders of a divine hound - had fallen fast asleep.
The noonday sun once again beat down with merciless insistence. The village of Thiras shimmered in its heat, its indolence undisturbed by any breeze or even the shadow of cloud. Most of the village had sought refuge from the assault, seeking what little cool air there was beneath the sparse shade of the olive groves; the tavern had laid out trestles and benches and was serving ale cooled from immersion in its well. Men and women sprawled listlessly, sharing the cooling beverage and talking in languid voices. Serving women, their dresses hitched high and their blouses laced low, passed round a simple feast of fresh bread, cold cuts, and green salad seasoned with herbs and olives.
It was another lazy day. Too lazy to do more than talk, an occupation which the older men of the village pursued with garrulous ease. Not even the children had the energy to play, and they sat in the narrow shadows, sprawling beside the equally indolent village dogs, and listening to their elders discourse among themselves.
"Nine." One of the old men decided. "There are nine muses. Right?"
"Right." His companions agreed, clearly pleased with this clarification. One of them leaned forward and began ticking off items against his fingers.
"Three Graces."
The group confirmed this with nods and smiles.
"Three Furies." More nods. "Three Fates. Seven Pleiades.. And - uh - how many Hounds of Artemis was it again? "
"Seven," a deep voice announced, its owner leaning forward from the shade of a nearby olive tree. He was a giant of a man, his dark skin gleaming in the sunshine and the light glittering off the polished ivory that decorated his collar. The old men turned as one, startled by his interjection. None of them had noticed him before and - given his distinctive looks and clothing - they clearly thought they should have done.
"Seven," one of them repeated doubtfully. "You sure?"
Orion smiled.
"Oh, yes," the leader of the Huntress’ pack announced with confidence. "I’m sure ..."
Although the citizens of Dinæ escaped permanent harm in the course of this tale, the city itself was badly damaged during the earthquake. Contributions to the Dinæ reconstruction fund can be made at any local bank or post office. Thank you for your concern.
