The Shieldbearer’s Gift Pythia

"...at which point Hercules just picks the guy up - right up, off the floor - and gives him a shake. There were dinars flying everywhere. Coming out of his sleeves, his jerkin, his boots, just everywhere. And all he could think of to say was 'how did that get there?'"

Laughter greeted the end of the tale and the storyteller lifted his tankard to take a well-earned drink. Polontius nodded knowingly and clapped him manfully on the shoulder so that he nearly spilt his ale under the impact of the hearty slap. "You really know how to tell them, Iolaus," the older man declared with relish. "Now how much of that was true, huh?"

The blond haired warrior lowered his tankard and favoured his audience with a look of wounded innocence. "All of it," he protested, then grinned, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his blue eyes. "Well - all but that bit about the goat."

"No goat," Polontius nodded, his lips pursing as if to say I thought as much . Iolaus took another mouthful of ale and winked at the buxom serving girl who immediately lifted her jug to offer him a refill.

"Oh, there was a goat," the hunter corrected, smiling his thanks at the woman, who coloured a little as she scurried back to the bar. "But it had a temper worse than Hera's and it tried to eat Hercules' vest. Come to that," he added, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Maybe it was Hera. It was certainly ugly enough …"

The laughter that followed this suggestion was a little more strained. Most of the gathered farmers knew better than to offer insult to the gods. They left that kind of bravado to fools - or to heroes like the one they currently entertained. "Goat or not," one of them decided, "it was a good story. Thank the gods for Hercules!"

Iolaus snorted softly, grinning into his ale. "You can say that again," he muttered and then giggled, only too aware that there were one or two of the gods who would seriously object to being thanked for his friend's existence. Personally he'd rather thank Alcmene and her patient, loving upbringing for the gift to the world that was her son; all the gods had given him was a divine strength and the constitution of a dozen oxen. His mother was the one who'd taught him all the mortal values that he chose to live by.

"So how come such a little guy like you knows so much about him, huh?" The man that lurched out of the convivial crowd was clearly drunk; he loomed over the table, swaying unsteadily on his feet and tried unsuccessfully to fix the compact warrior with a belligerent eye. Iolaus frowned, staring at the unexpected interruption with a mixture of disgust and annoyance.

"Ignore him," Polontius advised catching at the warrior's arm to quell any impetuous reaction. He'd known Iolaus a long time - long enough to know that he didn't take too kindly to imprecations concerning his stature. He wasn't exactly sensitive about his lack of inches, but he'd got very sick of having to prove himself to every arrogant bully and ignorant thug who automatically assumed that small equated to weak. The rangy farmer had been a warrior himself once, and he owed his life to the 'little guy' currently sitting next to him; when it came to courage and worth he suspected that there were very few that could measure up to him. "He's drunk. Don't you know anything, Ovarus? Iolaus here's been Hercules' partner for years. They practically grew up together."

"Yeah?" The man called Ovarus sounded unconvinced. "That right?"

"That's right," Iolaus acknowledged warily, glowering at him before he returned to his ale. The drunk laughed contemptuously.

"Partner," he drawled with deliberate scorn. "Huh. I bet. You know what they call guys like you in Sparta? Shieldbearer. Though – uh – I don’t get it. Why would the mighty Hercules pick a scrawny runt like you to keep him warm at night? "

"Of all the stupid questions …" the hunter muttered tightly. He looked up, to find the man grinning inanely at him.

"But hey," he was chuckling derisively. "it's an easy way to earn a reputation, right?"

"That's enough!" Iolaus was on his feet and barrelling into Ovarus with angry force. The drunk staggered back in alarm and half a dozen men leapt to his defence. Chairs, tables and assorted farmers went flying. Within moments the entire tavern was a heaving mass of brawling, drunken revellers, most of them with utterly no idea of what the fight was about.

Polontius sighed. He'd managed to hang onto his tankard when the melee began, snatching it up before the table was utterly demolished by a tumbling drunk. He stood in the middle of the altercation and calmly finished his ale, wiping a broad hand across his mouth once he'd done so. There was nowhere to put the now empty tankard so he sighed a second time, shrugged and used it to brain the nearest brawler, pole-axing him instantly.

A figure flew in his direction and he dodged, leaving the man to collide with the back wall and slide down it in an undignified heap. Iolaus's handiwork; Polontius had to dodge the other way as another of Ovarus's brothers tumbled past him. The old warrior quirked the barest of smiles, stepping over a pair of struggling combatants and paused to admire a master at work. The hunter was a whirlwind of fury, intent on reaching his initial quarry, and dispatching each and every defender that tried to intercede between him and his goal. Ovarus, who never was the brightest of individuals, was still taunting the smaller man, although he was running out of both insults and friends willing to stand between him and the angry warrior.

Polontius didn't really blame Iolaus for his reaction; there was no doubt that the original insult had been delivered with deliberate and biting contempt. It had attacked - not just the man it was aimed at - but his partner too, and if there was one thing that the blond hunter could be counted on to do, it was leaping to Hercules' defence without a moments thought to his own safety or well being.

And if he hadn't been so angry, he'd probably be enjoying the fight …

"Hey." The charioteer turned gentleman farmer shoved a would be belligerent drunk to one side, hauled two more apart and then banged their heads together to quiet them both down, dodged the last of Ovarus's brothers as he staggered away from a well aimed roundhouse kick, and intercepted a muscular arm just before it landed a furious and potentially fatal blow. Iolaus spun at the contact, kicking out as he turned. Ovarus went down with a pained gurgle and the hunter barely managed to halt his frenzied attack as he registered just who it was standing behind him.

"Pol," he gasped, the angry fire in his eyes fading to a wary surprise. He glanced around in confusion, as if only now registering the rest of the chaotic conflict. A drunken burly farmer lurched in their direction and the two men reacted as one, laying him out with a synchronised strike that lifted his feet right out from under him.

"Iolaus," Polontius considered thoughtfully, laying a friendly arm across muscular shoulders. "I think you and I need to talk …"

They fought their way out of the tavern, a dance of discouraging fists and feet that quickly restored the hunter's good humour and even lifted a wry smile of satisfaction to Polontius's chiselled features. They made it out of the main door just before the village militia charged through it, and quickly scurried away down the nearest side street like a pair of schoolboys escaping from a mischievous escapade.

"Well, that was fun," Iolaus declared, finding a handy wall against which he could lean to catch his breath. He giggled, recalling another such incident, a good many years before. "Almost as good as that fight in Calantia."

Polontius laughed, a short sharp bark of disbelief. "I remember Calantia," he said. "I had a black eye for days afterwards and Jordaran was limping for weeks."

"Well - yeah," the hunter allowed with a shrug. "But the fight was fun. And it's one of the few I've ever been in that Herc started. That guy really shouldn't have said what he did about his mother."

"Hercules was a lot younger then." The old warrior sighed. "So were the rest of us. You're right," he decided after a thoughtful pause. "That was a good fight. This one - "

Iolaus grimaced self consciously, peeling himself away from the wall and walking a little further down the street. "He asked for it," he muttered, aware that he'd undoubtedly let his temper get the better of him again. No matter how much fun the brawl had turned out to be he'd not exactly been looking for a fight that evening.

Just a few good ales and some friendly company …

"Did he?" Polontius asked, falling into step beside him. "Back where I come from Shieldbearer is an honourable title. And one that's hard to win."

"I know." Purple clad shoulders shrugged uncomfortably. "It wasn't that that made me mad, Pol. It was the other things he was implying." He paused in his steps to turn and look up, meeting his company square in the eye. The tall Spartan looked back at him with patient expectation. "I'm - sorry," Iolaus offered, his features creasing with embarrassment. "I didn't mean that exactly, I - "

"It's okay," his friend said softly, catching his shoulder and steering him down the street. "Ovarus was asking for it - and if you hadn't clocked him for that remark I'd probably have hit him for the next one. He's a jerk, pure and simple - gets his kicks out of being a bully and putting other people down. Perhaps this will teach him to pick his targets a little more carefully in future."

The two men exchanged a look at that thought, both contemplating the possibility it presented. "Nah," they both chorused, dismissing the idea with a grin and synchronised shake of heads. Then Iolaus sighed, kicking out at a stray stone and sending it skittering away across the narrow street.

"It’s always the same," he complained testily. "Stupid people asking stupid questions. I am so tired of people wondering why Hercules lets me hang around. Hang around?" His growl held angry overtones, evidence of a long simmering frustration. "As if I never did anything. What does it take, huh? What do I have to do to make idiots like that realise that we’re a team? That I’m the one who’s watching Herc’s back, acting as bait, running interference, or just – just in the thick of things, with him or without him. I’d like to see that imbecile face up to a hydra or two …"

"You know," Polontius pointed out thoughtfully, "Ovarus isn't really the issue here. You are."

"Me?" Iolaus gave him a puzzled glance as they scrambled over the pile of bricks and stones that blocked the end of the narrow street. "What have I done? Apart from half demolishing your local tavern, that is?"

The farmer sighed, tilting his grey touched head to indicate the direction they needed to take. They'd emerged into a second square, this one a little smaller than the main market place that the tavern fronted. A small fountain played in the centre of the open space, filling the night air with the soft music of falling water. On the far side of the square was a long low building, its frontage supported by a row of fluted columns, between which ascended a line of shallow steps.

"I don't know quite how to put this," the Spartan said, leading the way past the weathered fountain and towards the imposing building. "Look - I've known you a long time, haven't I? Right back from the days when you were little more than a scrawny kid with a fiery temper and a heart bigger than the rest of you put together."

Iolaus grinned at the description, recalling those early days with the benefits of hindsight and experience. "I grew up," he noted with a shrug of amusement.

"Not much," Polontius retorted warmly. "But enough," he added, quickly enough to stall the irked hey that sprang to the hunter's mind. "What I'm trying to say is - I've fought alongside you both. I know you and I know Hercules. And - Iolaus, if you go around reacting to those kind of insults with that kind of anger - people might start to think the accusations are true."

"What?" The response was a mixture of startled indignation and disbelieving amusement. "Pol, you don't seriously think - oh," the hunter registered, catching the look his companion was giving him, "you do?"

"Mmhuh." The farmer walked up three steps then turned and sat on the plinth of the nearest pillar. "Know something else? " A faint smile tugged at his weathered features. "I think they'd be right. Oh - " he continued, putting up a hand to halt the outraged denial that he knew would spring to mind, "not what Ovarus was implying. You've earned your reputation as a warrior, my friend, not bought it with service and favours. But there's a truth in there I think you have to see - before it becomes a lie you can't live with."

Iolaus stared at him suspiciously, trying to fathom what he might be talking about. He knew Polontius's personal history, but surely the man wasn't assuming that he …?

"When I was young," the old man considered thoughtfully, "I wanted to be a hero. A true warrior. A leader of men - someone that the bards sang songs about. I dreamt of the day when I would wear the laurel wreath of victory. Of the time when the very mention of my name would strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. But I was just a poor farmer's son. Not a prince. Not noble born. I ran away to join the army and ended up as nothing more than a humble charioteer."

"Not so humble," Iolaus noted warily, leaning his weight against the next pillar along. If all this was a cue for reminisces, then he might as well make himself comfortable. Polontius told a good story. But they all tended to be long ones.

"Not later," the farmer agreed. "No. But then - I was a sorry creature. Less than the dirt beneath my horses' hooves. They were worth more than I was. But one day a man with a hero's heart and a prince's smile picked me out from the crowd. Serve me, he said, and I did."

Iolaus smiled at the description; he knew the man his friend was talking about as well as he knew Polontius - and they weren't quite the words he'd have used to encapsulate the dark eyed, war scarred warrior that he'd first met on a battle field. They were apt words though - particularly given Polontius's personal perspective on the matter. "Jodaran was a good man," he offered softly, knowing that their mutual friend's death was a loss the older man still wrestled with.

Polontius nodded, his expression briefly adopting a haunted look. "I thought so," he said and sighed. The hunter couldn't help but echo it, recalling the day he'd first met the man they now discussed …

It had been a long cold day in Macedonia, one more in a long campaign that had cost much and accomplished little. Hercules had heard about the invasion - one avaricious King trying to steal the more fertile territory of another – and, encouraged by his success in ending the Parthian conflict, had led a cohort of would be heroes to aid the beleaguered province in their desperate battle. Iolaus had been a young man back then, fresh out of the academy and filled with ambitions and expectations, many of which had been knocked out of his head in those bitter days of bloody conflict. While his impetuous heart had been tempered by the faith and friendship a demi-god had willingly offered him, the strength of that friendship had been sorely tested by those endless days of fruitless war. The moments of glory had been few, and the soul wearying hours that filled the space between them had taxed even his irrepressible spirit to the point of near despair. Far from being feted heroes, the warriors from Corinth and Thebes had been treated as one more bunch of dispensable mercenaries; they'd been sent on missions that set them against superior numbers of battle hardened troops, and - more than once - had had to retreat in disarray, fighting their way against overwhelming odds.

Rain was his primary memory of the campaign. Ice filled, heavy rain that churned most of the disputed lands into mud. He'd lived in it, eaten and breathed it, the heavy clay filled soil coating his skin and tainting everything it touched. As the days had progressed and their numbers had dwindled Hercules had slowly withdrawn into himself, feeling every death, every crippling wound to be his responsibility. Iolaus had tried everything to break into that introspective decline, dashing himself time and time again against the walls that his friend was busy building around himself. Nothing had worked, and the effort of trying had proved even more exhausting than the campaign itself.

So in the end they'd quarrelled. Badly, each denouncing the other for selfish motivations, for dragging the other into their current misery purely for the sake of personal glory. He'd accused the son of Zeus of not measuring the cost of his desire for justice, and Hercules had countered with taunts about would be heroes who tagged along at his heels like mindless lapdogs in the hope that some reflected glory might actually alight on their shoulders.

They were both proud, both stubborn - and nearly looking to end their friendship in that sea of ice and muck because of it, too young to forgive each other's faults, much less their own. If it hadn't been for the battle that followed, they might never have spoken to each other again.

Iolaus wasn't even sure why he'd picked up his sword again that morning. It wasn't his fight and never had been, but, when the call to arms resounded through the camp, there he'd been, wading through the muck like the rest of them. He'd not done it for the money, since the side they supported was both broke and losing ground. Nor had he done it for the glory, since hope of earning any kind of name had long since been ground into the mud of the interminable conflict. Perhaps it had been sheer obstinacy, a streak of rebellion surfacing with the same kind of inner anger with which he'd once reacted to his father's taunts. He just wasn't the sort to quit, and maybe it had been that that had placed him, tight lipped and simmering, back at his best friend's side.

Or maybe it had been something else.

Something he'd never quite been able to put his finger on …

Whatever the reason, he'd followed the banners to the battlefield - and to an encounter that he would never forget.

They'd been sent to reinforce the phalanx of local and mercenary troops who been holding one side of a narrow valley for several days. The warlord commanding the attacking troops had bided his time, fighting a holding action while his own reinforcements came up from the west. They'd arrived that morning, and by the time the Corinthian contingent had reached the valley it was to find a full scale battle underway. The air was filled with the clash of swords and the screams of dying men. The fighting had been fierce and the losses heavy on both sides. A clever use of tactics had drawn the defenders away from the valley wall, exposing them in the open; it had been clear, right from the moment that they'd cleared the ridge, that this was no longer a matter of providing reinforcement, but had become a rescue mission.

There's no such thing as an honourable retreat, boy, Iolaus's father had once insisted, berating news of a fellow general who had fled the field rather than lose more of his men. Skourus had been wrong. The chaotic scenes that were being played out in that narrow valley were pointless, hopeless slaughter - and the only honourable men on the entire field were the small group of Spartan mercenaries who had held their ranks and were trying to retreat from the onslaught with determined steps.

Hercules hadn't hesitated. He'd swept the battlefield with a shrewd eye, quickly assessing the points of greatest need, and then had led the way down into the valley, his companions howling at his heels. Iolaus had raced beside him, all thought of resentful anger lost in the immediacy of the moment and the two of them had charged the warriors who were besieging the nearest allied group with all the speed and fury of a tidal wave.

After that things had degenerated into total chaos. Men had fought and died around them, their blood adding to the slurry of mud and muck that washed the ground. Steel blades had whirled all directions as the struggle surged and heaved up and down the valley slopes. Horses had trampled past, dragging broken chariots or broken riders. Javelins had whistled overhead. Arrows had peppered the air.

And the two of them had fought back to back, each protecting the other without thought or hesitation, just as they'd been trained to do. Just as they had pledged to do, in that long ago summer when they had been little more than boys who played at being heroes …

At the heart of the conflict, right at the fiercest moment of the battle, they had come face to face with another partnership, one whose strength and commitment was to serve as both influence and example in the days that followed. Jodaran was the commander of the Spartan force; he'd been first into battle and last to retreat, keeping his men together in disciplined array while the rest of the army collapsed into confusion under the assault of the enemy. Polontius was his partner and charioteer, an essential member of a fighting team that few could match for skill or bravery. Back then Iolaus had been taught about and even practiced the traditional Spartan fighting styles, but he'd never seen the highly demanding combination of armed warrior and defensive shieldbearer actually used in action. Few could master the intricacies of the art; it required that each member implicitly trust the other at every moment in the conflict so that they moved as one man with one mind …

"Hold the line! Hold it, damn you!" The stentorian voice cut through the clash of combat with commanding insistence. Iolaus grimaced at the distant instruction, parrying an enemy blade and kicking its wielder hard in the knee. The action brought the burly warrior down to a much more manageable level; a twist of the wrist brought the sword hilt round to slam it firmly against the side of a battered helmet, and the enemy collapsed with a startled look on his face.

"The bigger they are …" the satisfied victor murmured, then glanced round with an almost guilty grin. Less than a pace behind him his fellow warrior had snatched up a pike from somewhere and was busy using it to fend off four more of the heavily armoured attackers. "Need a hand?" the young hunter asked, snatching the opportunity to gulp down much needed breath.

Hercules simply threw him a look, dipped at one knee to take a combination of blows and then pushed, sending all four warriors flying.

Show off, Iolaus noted inwardly, the ease of the manoeuvre stirring a little of the anger that still simmered inside him. It wasn't usually a serious complaint, but, even before they'd quarrelled, he'd had occasion to resent the way his friend seemed to possess such inexhaustible reserves of strength and energy. He might be the son of Zeus, but there were times it just made the rest of them look bad - and right then it rankled.

You don't have to worry about getting yourself killed, Hercules had complained, one of those hot, unconsidered remarks they'd been throwing at each other the previous evening. Not when you know I'm around to step in if you get into real trouble …

Which had been a backhanded insult to say the least - and one that had spurred an equally hurtful riposte.

As if I, or anyone else, had the chance when you're around. You're so busy charging to the rescue you never stop to consider if it's actually needed …

"Hold!" The order was delivered again, firmer than before, an insistent demand that rose above the cries and conflict that seemed to be everywhere.

"Come on," Hercules suggested, heading towards the source of the voice with a determined stride. Iolaus sighed, paused to dissuade an approaching enemy soldier with a backhanded slash of his sword and ran after his fellow warrior, taking two steps to every one of his in order to keep up.

They crossed a shallow dip and then climbed a low rise, dealing with a few enthusiastic soldiers on the way and finally reached a point where they could look down on the chaos of the battlefield. Some hundred paces ahead the Spartan troop they'd been looking for was under siege, encircled by wheeling cavalry and taunting foot soldiers.

"Close ranks!"

The order was followed by instant obedience; the men were holding their position behind a line of linked shields, each warrior defending the man beside him. As one fell, they stepped back so that no gap remained to weaken their defences.

"Neat," Iolaus observed, impressed by the obvious discipline that lay behind the display.

"Maybe." Hercules was less concerned with the mechanics and more with the result. "But it's not getting them anywhere. They need to break out of that formation or they'll be picked off one by one."

"Oh." The hunter took a second look. His friend was right. The besieging troops were drawing in, pulling a tighter and tighter noose of offence around the tired men. "So?"

The son of Zeus threw him a grim smile. "So let's go make them the gap they need."

From anybody else, the suggestion would have been a ludicrous one. The two of them had been fighting for hours; they'd been cut off from the rest of their group soon after the initial charge and had been dancing though churned slurry and trampled brambles ever since, working their way towards the last place they'd seen the main focus of the conflict. Now they'd arrived - two mud spattered, weary young men barely out of their teens. On the surface they seemed most unlikely to prove an effective relief force.

But looks can be deceiving. True, they were not yet the seasoned and accomplished warriors that history would record, nor had they quite achieved the effortless partnership that would serve them so well in the years to come, but what they lacked in experience they more than made up for with confidence and energy. The reality of it was that one member of the pair was gifted with the strength and fortitude of Olympus - and the other was a stubborn hearted hothead who just didn't know when to quit.

And right then, perhaps, each was trying to prove something to the other, to somehow demonstrate that they really were the heroes that they claimed to be.

"Race ya," Iolaus suggested boldly - and set off before his friend could answer, bounding down the slope like a long legged colt and whooping wildly as he ran. Hercules hesitated, a little taken aback to have his suggestion so enthusiastically endorsed, then sighed, snatched up an abandoned pole arm and ran after him. His long stride quickly brought him level with the young hunter's precipitate charge and the two of them howled back into battle, striking at the rear of the nearest enemy phalanx.

Soldiers scattered in confusion as they whirled into action. Their spearhead of two cut straight into the gathered ranks and, since most of the men's attention had been focused on the Spartans and not on what might be coming up behind them, started a frantic, disordered stampede. Hercules added to the disarray by picking up one of the startled warriors and using him as a human battering ram; when the first such weapon collapsed into limp unconsciousness, the son of Zeus simply threw him away and grabbed another. Iolaus lacked the strength for such grandstanding; he simply ducked and rolled, using his own compact frame as living bowling ball in order to knock a whole row of armoured men off their feet. He bounced up smeared with mud and gore and a berserk grin written across his features. This was total and absolute suicide - and he was loving every minute of it.

"Duck!" he heard Hercules yell and he did so, dropping to one knee and using the other leg to sweep two more men onto their backs. A flailing figure soared over his head, landing on a line of six or seven others and dropping them into a tangled heap. Iolaus leapt up and through the resultant gap, knocking a few heads as he passed. Struggling figures gave up struggling; their heavy armour dragged them back into the mud and they stayed there, groaning or unconscious.

A sword whistled towards him; he feinted back then swung his own blade in to parry. This warrior was tougher and it took him a few moments to find the fast duck, dance, shimmy manoeuvre that spun him under the man's guard. He turned as he twisted in, completing the move with a sharp kick up and back to the groin and an upward slam of his gauntleted forearm. The man jerked forward as the kick landed, folding himself quite nicely into the follow through blow, then simply collapsed altogether.

"I - gotta - learn - a better way - to do that," Iolaus gasped to himself. Fighting was such hard work. He was always smaller, leaner or lighter than the other man - and while he had learnt to use some of that to his advantage at the academy, he always had a sneaking suspicion that there was a much easier way if only he could find out how. It would take nearly ten years - and a number of painful lessons from a man both shorter and lighter then he was - before he would find that way, mastering the fluid eastern fighting style that he would make so much his own. Right then he was stuck with the effort - and feeling every blow.

He gulped down another desperate breath and scrambled back into the fray, leaping another pile of groaning bodies so as to catch up with his partner. They might have scattered the phalanx with the surprise of their initial attack, but the troop was regrouping on either side. If they were going to cut through to the besieged men they were going to have to do it quickly.

A rumble of thunder murmured overhead as he ran, and a few spattered drops of rain began to impact in the mud. Going on previous experience, this was likely to be just the precursor to another heavy downpour; that wouldn't necessarily end the battle, but it would make fighting in it pretty difficult.

"Okay?" Hercules asked as Iolaus took up his usual place at his friend's back. The young hunter nodded, too breathless to speak. "Okay …"

They charged a second time, meeting a more ordered defence. There were two lines of men left between them and the besieged Spartans. Half of the back row turned to meet the new assault just as the front line moved forward in an attack of their own. Iolaus found himself facing down three grim faced warriors, all of whom broke into amused grins as they registered the age and stature of their new opponent. He wiped the grins off their faces with studied effort, facing the first with a well practised twist and parry that disarmed the man, followed through with a double handed slash that got under the second man's guard, and finished the job by throwing himself at the last man's feet and sending him flying. The procedure was neither text book nor particularly elegant, but it was pretty effective all the same; he rolled back to his feet to find himself looking straight at a startled Spartan, barely ten feet away.

"Lead off!" Somewhere behind the surprised soldier the order was barked with fierce authority. "Flank right. In pairs! Now, damnit!"

"Out of the way, kid!" The man Iolaus currently faced swung his shield out of the main line of defence, hefted it up to defend his left side and headed straight towards the young hunter at a run. The man standing on the soldier's right reflected the manoeuvre, matching the first man's pace; behind them the other Spartans followed suit, their carefully constructed circle of defence dissolving into a directed line of determined movement. Iolaus yelped in alarm and leapt back as the juggernaut thundered through the gap he'd just made. Then he yelped a second time and spun, barely in time to deflect the spinning javelin that had been heading straight towards him. He'd caught the movement out the corner of his eye, but his lucky escape was only a moment's respite in a suddenly alarming situation. The scattered phalanx had regrouped and he was now standing between a line of advancing soldiery and the fast paced shield wall that was moving behind him.

More javelins whistled past, clattering off the Spartans' shields. Iolaus cursed, defending himself with wild sweeps of his sword as he glanced left and right in search of a possible avenue of escape. Somewhere behind him he heard a man grunt and go down as some of the deadly bombardment found a softer target. Lightning flashed, quickly followed by a clap of thunder that shook the whole valley. The rain began to fall in earnest, laying a curtain of gray across the world.

Gods, he swore, blinking the dazzle of the lightning from his eyes and seeing a whole line of seasoned mercenaries charging straight towards him. Time I was out of here …

Except there was nowhere left to go. To his left cavalry were racing in, covering the ground the Spartans had defended with frightening speed. To his right the enemy phalanx was converging on the Spartan column. The escaping men were still cutting off his chance of retreat, although their regrouping manoeuvre was now complete and at least half of them had already passed him. And in front …

He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on his sword hilt and took up a defiant stance, bracing himself for the impact of the charge.

"Iolaus?" Hercules' voice came from somewhere behind him. From somewhere behind the Spartan shield wall in fact and a cold hand briefly clamped the young warrior's heart as he realised that his semi-divine partner was in no position to reach him before the rapidly converging enemy did.

I'll leave you a couple of little ones, Herc, he thought with a reckless grin, no time or energy left to waste on acknowledging that anxious call. No chance either - even as he measured up the distance between himself and nearest running man, the sound of pounding hooves registered to his left. Iolaus spun, reacting with alarm as a heavily armoured cavalryman bore down on him with unexpected speed. His instinctive leap backwards probably saved his life - it took him out of the direct path of the wild eyed horse and its frantic pounding hooves - but it was not enough to avoid the iron mace that swung down in his direction. The impact took him hard, striking his shoulder before glancing off the side of his jaw and temple; it lifted him clean off his feet and spun him round so that he landed, dazed and breathless, face down in the mud.

He rolled over with a pained gasp, his senses swimming and his entire arm and shoulder feeling as if it had been set on fire. It took a moment for the world to refocus, and when it did he began to scrabble backwards in panicked consternation. The mounted man was looming over him; he'd reigned back his horse and the beast had reared up and skidded, its front hooves flailing barely inches from the startled warrior's skull. The young hunter's attempt at a startled retreat was a futile one; his hands and feet failed to find any purchase in the churned and slippery mud. Iolaus was in deep trouble and he knew it. His sword had been sent flying; he had nothing else with which to defend himself, and he was staring certain death in the face. Light glinted off the point of the spear in the cavalryman's hand; his right arm was lifted, ready to thrust down - and the weapon was aimed straight for his enemy's heart.

For an impossibly long moment nothing existed in the young warrior's perceptions but that gleaming length of steel and the startled awareness of where it was aimed. His mouth went totally dry, and his thoughts took on that crystal clarity that only ever comes with a recognition of inevitability.

So this is it, he realised with an odd sense of acceptance and distinct feeling of regret. I'll wait for you in Elysium, Herc. Guess you'll have to become a hero without me …

The spear lifted. The horse reared up. Time slowed to a complete crawl -

And the point of a javelin blossomed through the cavalryman's breastplate; a heavy, barbed javelin of the Spartan style, thrown with considerable force.

Slowly - so slowly that it seemed to happen with balletic elegance - the armoured figure arched in reaction. The spear tumbled from his hand. His mouth opened in a wordless cry - and then he was falling, toppling out of his saddle to land on the churned earth in an ungainly heap.

Iolaus' world crashed back in glorious technicolour. The sounds of battle surged around him, filled with the clash of steel and the cries of embattled men. The bitter chill of the mud struck up through his soaked clothing - and the pain that had been lurking at the edge of his perceptions flared into furious fire. "Argh," he gasped, collapsing back into the muck as his injured arm gave way beneath him. Stars began dancing in front of his eyes and the world swayed with alarming motion.

Gods, he grimaced, fighting down a surge of nausea, get up, Iolaus. Before you're trampled to death ...

He tried. He got as far as lifting one shoulder out of the sucking mud - and then the pain exploded inside his head a second time, and pitched him back with another gasp of frustrated agony.

"You still alive, kid?"

The question was unexpected; Iolaus opened his eyes - wondering, as he did so, just when it was that he'd closed them - to find a fuzzy shape crouched beside him. He blinked and the shape wavered into firmer focus. It looked like a man - a warrior, wearing a well worn armoured tunic and a battered helmet with a high plume and inset decoration that matched the armour's golden trim. Rain hammered on the steel and soaked into the heavy black cloak that was thrown back from the man's shoulders. Dark eyes were looking down at him, dark eyes set in a square cut, solid face.

"Not sure," the young hunter gasped, staring at his company with decided disconcertion. "You're not - Hades, are you?"

"Nope," the man laughed, reaching out a hand to help him sit up. "You think he'd come and collect you personally?"

"He might," Iolaus protested, stung by the amusement that had backed the question. "Ohhh …"

Sitting up had not been a good idea. The world spun alarmingly and there was a distinct grating sensation in his shoulder that stirred the pit of his stomach. "Easy," the older man advised, the laughter in his eyes replaced by taut concern. "That was a nasty blow you took …" His words were curtailed by sudden action; he straightened up from his crouch, spinning round to block the incoming blow of a sword. The parry was followed by a skilled twist and thrust. The enemy soldier went down with a gurgle and lay still. "Pol," the dark eyed warrior growled, more amusement than complaint, "Ya missed one!"

"Sorry," came the immediate response, the speaker throwing the word back over his shoulder as he thrust away half a dozen advancing soldiers with a heave of his shield. Iolaus blinked, taking a closer look at the situation.

It was raining heavily now, reducing the earlier clarity of the battle field to a blurred and murky grey. Men battled around him, the mercenary charge having disrupted the end of the Spartans' retreating battle line. They slipped and staggered in the mud, swords clanging to the accompaniment of curses as even skilled warriors lost their footing. Chaos reigned. It was no longer immediately clear which were the enemy and which were allies; most of the fighting men were coated with mud, and their colours had been darkened by the rain.

"Can you stand?" The dark eyed man was back at his side, once again offering down his hand. Iolaus took it gingerly, taking the opportunity to get a better look at him. He was a seasoned warrior, his face weathered with lines of experience beneath the weight of his helmet, although his compactly built, sturdy figure looked almost slight beside the burly mercenaries that currently surrounded them both. His armour was battered but it carried more than a hint of quality - and, along with his sword, he carried at least six menacing javelins, their points jutting up over his right shoulder from behind his cloak. The hand that grasped the hunter's mud slicked arm was strong; a determined tug brought him to his feet, where he swayed unsteadily, fighting down a growing desire to throw up.

"There's nothing to ya, kid," the man laughed, putting out an arm to steady him. "Hey, Pol! Look at the size of this little fish …"

Iolaus glared at him. Maybe he was small, but that didn't make him any less formidable on the battle field.

"Throw him back, Jo," the other man advised, turning to flash a broad smile in his friend's direction. The speaker was a tall, rangy figure, with a tousle of soft brown hair and firm cut, well defined features that suggested both strength and compassion. He was standing between the dark eyed warrior and the weight of the melee, holding off would be attackers with his shield. Not just any shield either - it was a good six feet deep, fashioned into a curving figure of eight and built up with layers of polished hide. A shield of the old style, designed to protect both its bearer and the man he was expected to defend. Right then it was being used more as a weapon than a barrier; the man behind it applying its weight with enthusiasm. Several soldiers were kneeling in the mud, their breath winded and their expression decidedly dazed.

"Better not," Iolaus's rescuer grinned. "He might grow up to be a shark …"

Too right, the young hunter considered, his glare dropping into an irked frown. Somewhere behind him there came a startled oof - and then Hercules was standing beside him, his hair slicked down by the cascade of rain, and his expression written deep with anxiety.

"Iolaus?" he questioned, then took a half step back, dropping into a defensive stance as the older warrior's sword swung in his direction.

"He with you?" came the terse question, followed almost immediately by a grimace of recognition and a roll of dark eyes. The sword point dropped away. "Oh, yeah. That's right. Two man army. Here - " He half pushed, half handed Iolaus over to the new arrival, who caught him with automatic reaction. The movement sent the wounded warrior's senses swimming; his legs buckled and he collapsed against the son of Zeus's sturdy frame with a strangled gasp of pain. "You'd better carry him," the older warrior advised. "We're getting out of here. Pol!"

Iolaus struggled to push himself upright. Carry me? he thought with decided indignation. I don’t need … Stars danced in front of his eyes. The world heaved under him like the deck of a ship beset by stormy weather - and the next thing he knew he was curled over Hercules' left shoulder, secured in place by a strong arm while its owner jogged across the mud slicked ground.

He was too dizzy to struggle, and too much in pain to protest; he relaxed instead, letting his body go limp and trying to ignore the way each manful stride sent a jolt of agony through his damaged arm and shoulder. The rain was sluicing down, painting the air with ice. He risked lifting his head - just a little - and tried to make sense of what was going on.

There were men on either side of him; Spartans, holding their shield wall as they ran, and striking out at the flurry of cavalry that swooped in from either side. Hercules was matching them pace for pace, keeping himself and his burden secure behind the relative safety they offered. Iolaus had no way to measure where they were heading - but he could, and did, bear witness to the skill that defended their retreat.

The dark eyed warrior and his rangy companion were bringing up the rear of the column, the taller of the two holding that heavy shield up and over so that it sheltered both with ease. Arrows and javelins rattled off the hide as they ran - and the men beneath it were laughing, sharing jesting words and shouting insults to their enemies. A cavalryman galloped close; the two men reacted almost as one, the shield swinging down and round, and the warriors dancing through an intricate manoeuvre that kept the shield between them and the enemy while allowing the man with the javelins to unlimber one and bring it to bear. The horseman's sword swept down. The shieldbearer deflected it - and the dark eyed warrior ducked under his companion's arm to strike upwards with a jabbing, directed motion. The point of the javelin slid under the attacker's outstretched arm and up into his armpit. Another athletic step, and the two warriors had regained their pace and position before the dead man had time to tumble from his horse.

Wow …

Iolaus was impressed. He blinked water from his eyes and fought to keep them focused, watching as the two men danced through another such manoeuvre. Three foot soldiers converged on them, clearly encouraged by the appearance of retreat. The first went down with a gurgle, his feet slipping in the mud and his sword clattering away from the shield. The second took the point of a javelin in his guts - and the third simply turned and ran away, his form quickly swallowed by the murk.

"You think they're giving up?" the taller of the two - Pol, Iolaus recalled fuzzily - asked, risking a glance over the rim of his shield.

"They'd damn well better be," his companion growled. "Troop!" he yelled, raising his voice back into the stenatorian tones that had barked those earlier orders. "Stand and regroup! Calthian! Scout ahead. Find us a way up into the hills - and somewhere out of this damn rain!"

There was more that followed - along with the clatter of shields and the rumble of thunder as the storm raged overhead - but Iolaus heard very little of it. The threat of nausea and the throb of pain had barely been keeping back the haze of nothingness that lurked at the edge of his senses; Hercules stumbled in a moment's misstep, the hunter's shoulder screamed in protest and the darkness surged in with determination, swallowing him completely.