How far, how far?

Iolaus raced up the tunnel in a sense of total panic, dodging descending ants and scrambling over the occasional outcropping of rock more by luck than judgement. He was moving as fast as he could, ignoring the howling protests of his body and wincing every time his haste resulted in bouncing his precious burden off a wall or a passing insect. His mind was filled with the deep, angry roar of the water as it had forced its way through opening he’d made, the way it had swept him from his feet and sent him tumbling across the cavern like an autumn leaf torn from its tree by a gust of wind. He’d barely had time to pick himself up and take to his heels before the rest of the wall had given way. The water had rushed in with hungry speed, devouring the squirm of larva and the startled ants which had been tending them, spilling out to fill the surrounding cavern and race, inexorably towards the other lower chambers in the nest.

It had been a race he’d been hard put to win. The buffet of displaced air had helped, lending welcome wings to his feet and pushing him away from the rushing waters; without that he might well have been overtaken and overwhelmed. As it was, he’d barely made it to the cavern entrance ahead of the flood. He was all too conscious of the thunderous inrush which had swirled in behind him, the way the water had surged through the narrower opening, painted with the light it had torn from the cavern walls. There’d been no time to stop, no time to consider options. He’d just gone on running, running for his life, racing to reach the suspect safety of the upper levels with no thought but escape. His flight had become a desperate dance as he’d weaved his way through the milling ants, their distress adding to his own sense of panic – a panic made worse by his fear for his friend. The relief of seeing Hercules stumble away from the pillars had lasted bare seconds – because barely a breath or two later he’d practically fallen over him in the middle of that seemingly endless stampede.

All men have limits. The difference that marks out a hero from the common herd is not that his are any greater – but that, once he reaches them, he reaches deep into his soul and somewhere, somehow, finds the inner strength to overcome them. Iolaus was battered, bruised and exhausted. His lungs felt as they were on fire and his whole body was howling with effort and pain. Right there – at that moment, with his best friend sprawled at his feet, the world around him about to meet a watery doom and his way out blocked by a whole swarm of monstrous insects - his heart, his soul, his entire sense of existence had hit a wall. One too high to climb, too thick to push through and far too wide to avoid.

Any sane, sensible, man would have thrown himself down beside his fallen comrade, done his best to shield him from the onslaught and given himself over to the Fates, knowing that he’d done his best and could do no more.

Iolaus, on the other hand, had given vent to the kind of curse that only old campaigners and the sons of generals know, picked up the son of Zeus, thrown him bodily over his shoulders and gone on running. On what, it was hard to say. He’d no energy left, no strength, and practically no hope – but something had kept him moving forward, had given him the determination to jostle his way through into the narrow tunnel and go on pounding up the slope like a man possessed.

Fear?

Or just plain, stubborn grit?

How far!

He was moving on sheer willpower alone. His limbs were lumps of unresponsive lead and there was the weight of the world on his shoulders. He couldn’t even see where he was going. Dim, barely glimpsed light had faded into a sullen, unrelenting gloom; only a few sparse patches of the phosphorescent lichen clung to the tunnel waals, and the only other illumination he had came from the damp glistening coating he’d picked up when the water had broken through. His eyes were blurred from sweat in any case, so that he stumbled upwards blindly, trusting his other senses to tell him which way to go.

The sounds of the queen’s distress resonated through the nest; her cries were still pulling the occasional insect down the tunnel, although nowhere near the numbers he’d pushed past at the start of his climb. The water had to be pouring into her chamber by now, spilling over the lip of the bowl and swirling around her bloated bulk. They would be trying to get her out, trying to lift her away from the flood – maybe even attempting to dam the waters or dig channels to divert the threat. When the supporting pillars were cut away and the roof of the chamber fell in, it was likely to take a large part of the exit tunnel with it. Iolaus had no idea of how far he had to run before he was safe, so he kept on running, expecting – any moment – to feel the earth give way beneath his feet and pitch him back to the depths.

Three things conspired to bring him to a halt.

The first was the way the upward slope of the tunnel suddenly turned into a flat surface with a much more open space on either side.

The second was the slick, slippery coating which was busy oozing its way across the cold earth and down into the tunnel from which he’d just emerged.

And the third was the sudden shudder which shook the ground beneath him and sent the whole world dancing for a second or two.

The first was simply startling; he hadn’t realised that he’d climbed as high as he had and his stumble into the upper chamber was briefly disorientating. But the stumble hit a surface that held no mercy for any misstep – and the shuddering earth simply confounded the whole situation. Simply put, Iolaus went flying, head over heels into the dark. He hit the ground hard, lost hold of Hercules altogether, rolled over a couple more times and ended up, face down, in a warm pool of something thick and oily.

"Ergnng," he reacted, jerking his head up from under the surface with a decided splutter. Fatigue dragged him down again; he managed to roll over with enormous effort and then collapsed back with a groan.

Silence had fallen around him like a heavy cloak. The desperate distress of the queen had been cut off as abruptly as the snuff of a candle. It was so quiet he could hear his heart pounding, trying to hammer its way out of his chest. He lay there for a moment, letting that frantic thumping settle into a more bearable rhythm and the fire in his lungs cool to a tolerable blaze.

That was close, he registered, a little bit of him surprised to find he was still alive and breathing. Being dead didn’t hurt anywhere near as much …

It was almost completely dark in the upper chambers. What little remained of the phosphorescent coating he had carried up from the depths was now floating around him in the pool which had cushioned his fall. Floating around, and away; the hollow where he was lying was simply a gathering point for a sluggish stream of glutinous fluid, which, now the shallow cavity had been filled, was busy overflowing in all directions. The faint gleam revealed nothing but looming shapes in the ceiling overhead, which seemed to press down with heavy menace. The exhausted hunter lay in the dark, staring up at the weight of the earth and bemusedly wondered why he had a sudden craving for fried barley cake. His stomach growled and he suppressed a semi-hysterical giggle; here he was, flat on his back, too tired to even think straight, and it was now that his body decided to remind him that he was hungry.

Which probably had something to do with being surrounded by the thick and unmistakable odour of virgin olive oil …

Gods!

Comprehension jerked him upright, despite the protests of his exhausted frame. The floor of the chamber was soaked in oil - oil which, at any moment, was likely to be set aflame. His sense of escape evaporated instantly; they were still in mortal danger and running out of time.

"Herc?" Iolaus called into the dark, desperately trying to recall which way his friend had fallen as they’d parted company. "Herc!"

He was rewarded with the barest of groans from somewhere off to his left. He dropped to his hands and knees and wearily crawled in that direction, frowning bemusedly as he found himself padding wrist deep in the warm oil.

How many barrels did Theo find?

From the depth in the nest – which appeared to be steadily rising – there seemed to be enough of the stuff to float the Argo on. Which either meant that the lanky entertainer had scoured the entire countryside for supplies, or there was something very odd going on. Iolaus made a mental note to study that thought later and then pushed the whole issue to one side. He had more important things to worry about. Like living a little longer …

His right hand encountered something soft and padded in the dark. Something with a waffle woven texture and a rounded, curving surface. That’s oil soaked leather, he registered distractedly, his fingers exploring the obstacle. Then recognition penetrated his tired brain. Herc!

He groped his way up his partner’s body, somewhat relieved to find that the son of Zeus had landed on his back and not face down as he had done. An unconscious man can drown in oil as easily as he can in water – and the oil was now deep enough to be lapping at half immortal earlobes. Hercules was still breathing at least, although he gave no sign of consciousness. . "Herc?" the hunter queried, giving his friend a gentle shake.

There was no answer. Just another soft and barely audible groan.

Iolaus swore.

Not heatedly, just a soft, resigned word that expressed his feelings with remarkable succinctness. He really, really had nothing left – but to give in now would mean condemning them both to a very unpleasant death. Not to mention an eternity of putting up with his partner’s inevitable self recrimination over this whole business. The hunter wasn’t inclined to blame anyone for any of this, but he knew Hercules – and he knew how upset he’d be, thinking he was the one who’d got them both killed.

Come on, Iolaus. He’s saved your butt enough times. Time for a little return on the account …

He sat back on his haunches for a minute, trying to orientate himself in the dark. An ant blundered past, trilling a soft whistle of distress. Then another, just as lost and confused. Iolaus held his breath as its bloated body brushed against his shoulder, conscious that what he probably smelt most of was oil – and heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief when it moved on. There would be more – maybe even a soldier or two – still left in the upper chambers; it would be a good idea to avoid them if he possibly could.

"Come on, Herc," he muttered wearily, groping for his friend’s arm in the dark. "We’re getting out of here."

He didn’t have the strength to stand, let alone pick his partner up and carry him any distance. The uneven nature of the ceiling would have been an obstacle to that in any case, so he settled for a more practical approach, hunkering down to drag the son of Zeus onto his shoulders and back, letting the man’s arms and legs hang down so that he was wearing him like a cloak. Hercules’ head tipped forward over his shoulder, dead weight like the rest of him; Iolaus lifted himself back to his hands and knees, shaking with the effort it cost, and slowly – more slowly than he liked – he began to crawl forward, his partner’s feet dragging behind them both.

It was the longest, toughest crawl he’d ever made – and that included his half delirious, dying stagger to find and warn his friend after his encounter with Hera’s enforcer. That hadn’t been anywhere near as hard. Hercules was heavy – and seemed to be getting heavier every moment, his weight uncomfortably reminiscent of the growing pile of stones he’d once had to support in an attempt to prove his innocence in crime. The level of the oil was still rising, the scent of it was choking his lungs – and the way seemed interminable, the exit tunnel rapidly becoming an unreachable goal. Every effort filled movement was a battle between his exhausted body and his stubborn soul; his limbs were shaking and he felt as if he were crawling over red hot needles – long ones, that drove themselves up through his hands and wrists to bury themselves in his labouring heart.

Can’t give up now, he told himself stubbornly, unconsciously echoing his sword brother’s earlier determination. Won’t …

The distance was interminable. He felt as if he’d died and been condemned to Tarterus, his fate to spend eternity crawling in the dark, escape forever that one next step away. He and Hercules together; heroes dammed for stubborn hubris, for believing that they could defy the Fates and save the world.

Only a little further. Not far now …

He repeated the litany over and over again, using it to force each agonised lurch forward, driving himself to a place where the pain no longer existed, into the spaces between each heartbeat, each white-hot intake of breath. His world was the heat radiating from his partner’s fevered frame, the viscous cling of the oil as it eddied around his wrists and knees, and the dazzle of blood red stars that danced and shimmered in front of his eyes. Cold earth, warm oil, hot flesh; the drumming in his ears and the surging darkness which had swallowed him up and was never going to let him go.

Not far now.

Not far now.

Notfarnow …

For all he knew he was crawling around in circles – but he went on crawling, knowing that if he stopped, he’d die. Hercules would die.

Back to back …

He giggled hysterically, his exhausted mind seizing on the utter insanity of his situation.

Back to back? Back to front …

His hands were sliding out from under him, pitching him down towards the merciless ground. When had the flat floor become an angled slope? When had the sluggish ocean of oil turned into a streaming river? What was this lumpy obstacle under his knees?

He groped around blindly, confused and disorientated by the change in his environment. His fingers made contact with something lying on the floor of the tunnel; a wrist thick, coiled something, that writhed away from him in either direction. There was a knot, looped into the thing’s length, and – there – another set a little higher.

Gods!

It was the answer to a prayer he’d never uttered, a sudden tangible anchor to the fragile thread of hope along which he’d been stubbornly crawling all this time. He was in the exit tunnel.

And Theodorous – or someone – had generously thrown him a lifeline …