The valley below the falls was a wide and fertile strip of land, fed by the fresh waters of the river and warmed by the summer sun. This was the land where men dwelt, those who feared and hunted her. She had not come here for a long time, not since that last bitter winter when she had been forced to risk the anger of her enemies to snatch a tender lamb or two from the stone pens where they had been sheltering.

It was curiosity, not hunger that drew her now. The smoke was thick; it curled up from where the village lay hidden in the fold of the land. She hesitated where the line of the tress gave way to open fields, nearly turning back - then she heard the sound of steel meeting steel, of hoarse shouts and wild war cries. Her eyes narrowed and she shivered with sudden excitement.

Warriors!

War never came to her mountain. It was why she had chosen to live here, away from temptation, away from the corruptions of her curse. But she could not deny her nature; she lifted her head and gasped in a deep breath of air, seeking in it the taint of hot blood, the enticing scent of death. She smelt smoke, and fear, and - there - a whisper of fresh meat. Her wings dug deep into the wind, carrying her forward with eagerness. She was made for the heat of battle and her wild heart pounded with anticipation as she spiraled up for height, looking down at the village and the scene of combat that awaited her there.

All was confusion at first. Figures ran through the billow of smoke; most were the weathered farmers that she hated so much, ugly, work worn men and women who herded children and goats ahead of them as they frantically tried to escape the chaos that had come to their ordered world. But there were others: figures clad in the glitter of armour, their helmets sporting horse hair plumes and their leather trappings reeking of war, lead by a man on horseback with a golden cuirass and a blood red banner flying at his back.

Her eyes darted this way and that, assessing the scene. The warriors had come up from the river, where a low barge lay grounded on the shallow bank. They carried torches and swords. Some were busy setting fire to the tumbled hovels that made up the village, others had been driving captive villagers towards the water, under the eye of their commander.

Had, because it seemed that their easy conquest had been challenged. Not by another army, as she would have expected, but by two men. Only two - and neither of them were armoured, and one didn’t even seem to be carrying a weapon. She twisted round to seek concealment in the column of smoke, anxious that no one below would see her until she made her move, and watched with fascinated eyes as what looked like utter foolishness resolved itself into bold moves and breathtaking skill.

The taller of the two caught her attention first. A well built man, his skin glistening with sweat as he fought his way through the leather clad forces that faced him. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew it would have a strength to match the rest of his powerful physique. His hair tumbled loosely about his shoulders, honey brown in the sunlight; his arms were bare, but for the grip of leather bands at his wrists, and his cream jerkin did little to conceal the ripple of muscle that lay beneath it. He fought with economic strength, punching out at opponents and sending them tumbling away as if they weighed no more than dry leaves. A warrior charged him - and he caught the man, picking him up and using his body like a battering ram, swinging him into his fellows and knocking them off their feet. His usefulness complete, the captured man went flying, arms and legs waving as he arched through the air.

Her claws clenched reflexively.

Oh, the sweetness of battle. The screams of the dying and the taste of blood on her lips ...

Her heart was beating faster. It had been so long. So long since she had scavenged in the aftermath of conflict, feasting on the hearts of dying warriors, feeding from the fallen and seeking her rightful prize among the victors of the day.

But this was just a small skirmish, not a true war. The fight would soon be over and she would not be able to linger in its aftermath. The scent of spilled blood was intoxicating, tempting her to fall and feed - but her heart was focused on other needs, on the promise that had been made to her so many years ago.

Would he be the one? She measured up the muscular warrior with a careful eye. He was strong - maybe too strong, his arms like knotted cords, and his back broad enough to resist the beating of her powerful wings. Her glance flicked from his honeyed head to the gold clad figure on the horse. Him, perhaps? He was a little older, but he sat in the saddle with arrogant confidence, berating his men as they failed to overcome the statuesque figure that swept through their ranks.

And then an agile form skidded out of a billow of smoke and back into the conflict - and her heart missed a beat and she knew.

He was a wiry streak of energy beside the muscular hero who’d first caught her eye. He lacked the height and reach of his companion, but he was just as sculptured beneath the ragged purple vest that draped his torso. His hair was a halo of sunlit gold and he moved like the wind, spinning and leaping with a lightning speed that dazzled and confounded his opponents. His sword was a flash of fire that wove a shield of steel around him; he fought with blade and hand and feet in a wild dance that defied death and dealt defeat with equal measure.

She followed his progress through the conflict, stifling a desire to echo the jubilant war cries that echoed from his lips. His partner battled more silently, but with no less skill; together they drove the invading warriors back, defending the villagers and littering the ground with fallen foes. It was a joy to watch. The pair fought with an easy, understated partnership, at times moving as if they shared the same mind, two parts of the same soul reacting with coordinated proficiency. Her body was quivering with exhilaration by the time they came to stand, back to back, in the midst of the battlefield, the once proud skirmishers either lying unconscious around them or fleeing the scene with alacrity. Only the horseman was left, to tug a bow from his back and aim it with anger at the taller of the two. She hissed as the arrow was loosed - then stifled a gasp of delight as a bold hand snatched it from the air and broke it in two.

The battle was over. The horseman cursed and dug in his heels, sending the animal lunging forward. Her wild warrior leapt aside, barely avoiding the flying hooves; his muscled companion reached out and plucked the rider from his saddle in one easy, fluid motion. He hung from an outstretched arm, kicking and protesting, while the cream and gold clad figure marched him down to the river - and threw him in.

She heard the smaller man laugh, left - for the moment - alone and exposed among the fallen. The villagers were busy trying to extinguish the fires. The broad shouldered warrior was several paces away, watching the man in the river trying to climb onto his barge. Her eyes flicked to the horizon, measuring the distance that lay between her and a place of safety. Not so far. She’d carried fat sheep that distance without effort. And it had been so long ...

She folded her wings and pounced, swooping down like an eagle, her claws extended in the stoop, her attention fixed entirely on her goal. He had his back to her; he started to turn, but far too late. Her talons flexed, sinking into leather and skin and hard muscle beneath. One strong downbeat of her wings - and she had her prize, springing into the air with a wild whoop of joy.

Doryagus looked a sorry sight as he struggled to climb out of the river. His helmet had been swallowed by the flood and his carefully coiffured hair had been reduced to a sodden mass. Hercules smiled quietly, deciding to let him struggle a little longer. The warlord deserved a little humiliation, not least because of his arrogant treatment of peaceful villagers who had offered him no harm. It had been bad enough, his terrorising the area and its people with threats and intimidation, but once he’d decided to swell his coffers with a little enforced slavery he’d become a decided menace rather than just a nuisance.

Well, the son of Zeus decided, that was all over now. They’d been hunting the man ever since they’d stumbled on the evidence of his nefariousness. They’d escort him back to Ornea and the courts there would judge him accordingly. At least they’d been able to save this village, even if the last two hadn’t been so lucky.

He heard Iolaus chuckle and turned to give him a thumbs up, grateful that he’d had his partner at his back for this one. It hadn’t been easy fight, since Doryagus had recruited experienced - if brutal - men and they’d needed every ounce of their combined skill to defeat them. They’d even had to kill a few, a situation he regretted every time it arose, despite the necessity of it. They’d round up the ones that were left - mostly those now lying around unconscious - and give them the usual choice; to leave unarmed and peacefully, or else to go back to the city with their paymaster and face the consequences.

Just the end of yet another adventure ...

The flurry of movement in the smoke made no sense for a moment. And when it did he was too far away to react, to do more than cry out a warning - one that came far too late.

"Iolaus!"

It all happened way too fast. Hercules had an impression of dark wings and taloned claws, of a creature wreathed in smoke, of a tumble of dark hair and what might have been a woman’s body in among the forest of daggers that reached for his friend. Iolaus barely had time to look up in alarm before the stooping monster was upon him; there was a confusion of beating wings and ruffled feathers and then they were both gone, the man snatched off the ground as easily as if he’d been a rabbit taken by a striking eagle.

"IOLAUS!"

Hercules was running as it happened, but he had no chance to reach the spot before the creature was well away, a dark shape vanishing towards the horizon and the mountain that rose above it. He watched with horror as a silvered shape plummeted to the ground several hundred yards away. A sword, landing point down to stand quivering in the ground. A long way off the winged shape jinked and twisted, as though struggling with its burden, then resumed its level flight, heading like an arrow for the mountain’s peak.

"Huh." Hercules heard from somewhere behind him. "Now there’s a turn-up for the books. Guess I can scratch his name off my retribution list."

The son of Zeus spun on his heel and lashed out with a bunched fist. Doryagus took the blow squarely in the face and went down as if poleaxed.

"Not yet," Hercules muttered, already dismissing the fallen man as unimportant. He strode towards the gathered villagers instead, seeing them staring after the vanished creature with wide and horrified eyes. "Any one here know what that was?" he demanded.

The men exchanged glances; the women shook their heads in sorrow and turned away.

"Well?"

One of the old men stepped forward, his face grim. "It was Celæno," he said. "The Harpy. She lives up on the mountain. The fighting must have drawn her here ..."

Harpy? Hercules mouthed, turning to catch a last glimpse of the dark shape as it was swallowed by distance. He’d fought harpies before; ugly, barely human creatures that were almost as stupid as they were vain. But this creature was larger than any he’d ever seen, and its dark feathers had been glossy and sleek, its actions swift and skillful rather than clumsy and uncoordinated.

"Harpies are carrion eaters," he protested, the shock of having his best friend snatched away right in front of his eyes beginning to register as a hollowness in his stomach. "Why would one carry away a healthy man when there are so many dead and wounded lying around?"

"I don’t know," the old man said. "It has been many years since she has been seen above the village. Sometimes we lose sheep in the winter - early in the morning. That’s how we know she still rules the air above the mountain. But - I heard it told - once - that she stole a young shepherd along with the sweetest of his flock. To keep her company through the long winter nights ..."

"Fantasy," a younger man interrupted sharply. "She’s just a ravening beast and we should have hunted her down a long time ago. This business - " and he swept out his arm to indicate the fallen soldiers that littered the ground, "will have wetted her appetite. She’ll be back. And we have to greet her with arrows and spears or she’ll devour us all. I’m sorry about your friend," he added, seeing the look that had settled on Hercules’ face, "but he was probably dead the moment she got him into the air."

"Where does she lair?" the son of Zeus asked the old man, ignoring the younger one.

"Up on the mountain somewhere. Above the waterfall and the high pass beyond it. But Zenon’s right, Hercules. Your friend is already dead. There’s nothing you can do for him."

Strong features creased into determined lines. "I can revenge him," his deep voice decided grimly. "Tie up Doryagus and his men and set a guard over them. I’ll be back."

He set off before any of them could formulate an argument to stop him, striding away from the village and towards the tree line and the slope of the mountain that rose above it. His chosen path took him past the place where the tumbled sword still stood, its point buried in the ground. He put out a hand and snatched it up as he passed, his fingers clenching around the worn hilt with convulsive reaction as he lifted it up to study its familiar length.

The point and the blade were clean; he’d seen Iolaus wipe them through the grass at the end of the battle, the experienced warrior taking care of his weapon with almost unconscious reflexes. But now both the hilt and the pommel were slick with blood.

Hercules’ mind insistently replayed memories of the unexpected attack as he walked. Dark wings, a flurry of feathers - and stooping talons, claws outstretched like savage daggers to strike, to pierce and to seize their prey. The hollowness in his stomach became a tight knot; anger and fear clenched his jaw and closed his throat, making it hard to breath. It had all happened so quickly. If only he’d been closer ...

Your friend is dead.

There’s nothing you can do for him.

Safely away from the village, Hercules finally vented the emotion that was tearing its way through his heart. His hand swung out, the sword an extension of his fury and frustration. It sheared completely through the nearest tree, sending it crashing to the ground.

"No," he denied hotly. "NOOOOO!"

His cry echoed and re-echoed around the wilderness, startling a flock of birds into flight. He stood and watched them wing away, seeing in their frantic panic images of past events; memories of other harpies he had fought and destroyed, choking on the foulness of their stench. Iolaus and he had hunted them down, finding them feeding on the carcass of the man they had abducted, their taloned hands stripping bloody lengths of flesh from his disemboweled body and stuffing them into their greedy mouths.

"No - " he moaned softly, his mind insisting on changing the image that sprang to mind, on replacing the empty eyes of the dead man with more familiar blue ones, staring sightlessly into nothingness. Of replacing a slick of dark hair with golden curls, tainted by the rich wine of a hero’s blood.

He fell to his knees, briefly overwhelmed by a sense of grief so great that not even his broad shoulders could carry it. To believe his friend - his brother - dead was one thing. But to lose him to such an ugly, pointless death ...

It should have been in battle.

It should have been at my side.

It should never have happened at all ...

He thrust the sword point deep into the earth in front of him, clinging to the stained hilt while he wrestled with the sense of angered pain that threatened to consume him. His wife. His children. His mother.

And now the man that was his brother in all but blood, snatched away in front of his eyes ...

His fingers grew numb on the sword hilt. After a long moment, so did the rest of him, all feeling draining out of his heart, leaving it empty and bleak. He climbed to his feet, slowly, tugging the weapon out of the ground and staring at the blade with haunted eyes.

"Celæno," he breathed, his lips tightening around the name, tasting it, layering it with hate. She was just a name, a dark shape without substance. But she had taken away the last precious piece of his life, and with it all meaning and purpose.

All purpose?

No - not all of it. He had one left, one duty to discharge.

I can revenge him.

He thrust the sword into his belt and set off at a run, covering the ground with long determined strides that ate distance with ease. There were two thoughts that drove him, intertwined in his mind like a pair of poisonous snakes gnawing at his soul

Iolaus was dead.

And Celæno was going to die.

If the moment of his capture had been agony, then the one that marked his release was even worse. The claws that had sunk into his flesh like needles of fire were ripped from the wounds without any trace of gentleness. His body dropped like a stone, hitting a surprisingly soft surface that cushioned his descent; he lay there for a long moment, gasping for breath and trying to understand what was happening to him.

He’d been standing on the battle field, watching Hercules deal with that two bit warlord in suitable fashion - and then Herc had called his name, and there’d been pain, and impact and a rushing sensation that had left his stomach behind. He’d struggled, and that had made the pain much worse, his weight suspended from a savage grip on his hips and shoulders, those needles of fire piercing his right shoulder and arm worst of all. Somehow he’d lost hold of his sword - and right now his stomach was threatening to lose hold of his lunch, his whole body shaking with shock and nausea.

Slow deep breaths, Iolaus, he told himself severely, his mind reeling, struggling for a place in reality. There had been the world, spiraling away from him - and the coldness of the wind, stripping his body of warmth while fire ate at his senses. And now this place, which made no sense at all ...

His fingers clenched at the softness that cradled him, drawing it closer while he fought for focus. His eyes were streaming, blurred with tears ripped out of him by the ice in the wind. He was lying face down in a bed of - a bed of - feathers?

Dark feathers, purple black and indigo blue; they were all sizes, from ones so small they were wisps of nothing to quills as long as his arm and longer ...

His arm. He blinked and stared at his right hand and the feathers that lay clenched within it. There was blood running down his fingers, soaking into the plumes and painting crimson across their raven surfaces. He turned his head the barest amount, tensed for the pain that lay in wait for an unwary movement. The first wound he registered lay high up on his arm, oozing scarlet ribbons down tanned flesh and caking the leather of his arm band. The second - he knew where the second and the third were without looking. Their fire ate into his shoulder both front and back. And there were others - less deep perhaps, but no less painful. On his left hip and buttock, sunk into the flesh at the back of his right thigh - and scored across his ribs above his heart, shrieks of surface pain that demanded attention with insistent presence.

And there was something moving behind him ...

He threw himself over and up, making a valiant attempt to regain his feet. Agony flared at the demands the move made on damaged muscle and the surface that supported him slid and shifted so that his athletic leap ended in an ungainly stumble and his landing on very tender spot. A flurry of feathers rose into the air, filling it with drifting softness; he found himself staring through the resultant haze at the very last thing he expected to see.

A woman. A young and very beautiful woman at that.

"Don’t be afraid," she said, her voice pitched low and soft. Her lips curved into a sad smile "I’m not going to eat you, I promise."

She was a slender figure, with raven black hair that hung loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were equally dark although her face and skin were pale - almost translucent, like fragile alabaster. And she wore a soft gown made out of the same dark feathers that lay strewn across the floor, its hem vanishing into them so that she seemed to glide towards him with effortless movement.

"Who are you," he started to formulate, then, after a hasty glance at his surroundings, "and where am I?"

Rock walls towered over him, a white rock, glistening with veins of quartz. He seemed to be in a cave of some sort, its crystalline depths lit by a reflection of sunlight, one that danced around the two of them as if shining off a pattern of water. Natural pillars supported a high vaulted roof; hunter’s instinct told him the way out was past her - and that it was some distance away.

Her smile was gentle; she moved to stand beside him, sinking down so that their eyes could meet. His were watchful and suspicious; hers held a note of quiet sadness he couldn’t fathom. "I am Celæno," she said, in that same soft tone. "This is my home. You are welcome here."

"Uh - thanks," he acknowledged doubtfully. "Erm - you mind telling me how I got here?"

She laughed, a gentle ripple of sound that echoed around the vaulted chamber that contained them. "Fate brought you." She tilted her head to study him, her eyes twinkling a little as they were patterned by the flicker of reflected light. "And I’m glad. It has been a long time since I have had company."

"Really?" His response was wary; she hadn’t actually answered his question, and until she had he was unwilling to commit himself to anything. "You’re - uh - alone, here?"

"Not any more," she breathed, her smile widening into one of amusement. Iolaus found himself reacting with a small grin of his own. Looked at that way, his question had been a rather idiotic one ...

"Listen - Celæno -" he said, "I was in this battle - actually, we’d just won this battle - and something just - just - " He wrestled with memory, trying to put coherence to disjointed images. "Picked me up. And put me down. Here." He started to lift his hand to indicate their surroundings and lost the final word in a wince of pain. The fire in his back and shoulder flared, demanding attention and he looked down, finally seeing the gaping hole below his collarbone and the ooze of blood that was spilling out of it. "Oh gods," he gasped, dizziness tearing at his senses.

"You’re hurt," she realised, all trace of amusement gone from her voice. "Let me help you."

Her hands were already reaching to do so, peeling the blood soaked vest from his shoulders with care. He didn’t protest her assistance, although moving his damaged shoulder was agony; he knew the wounds were deep and if nothing were done about them he was going to bleed to death, right where he sat.

A cursory glance suggested that the lacerations over his left ribs were merely surface scratches; he ignored them and reached to press his left palm against the oozing hole in his shoulder, looking down at the damage to his right arm instead. That was another wellspring of his life, weeping a slow scarlet tide. Another wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him and he leaned back into the support Celæno offered, her robe a soft surface that felt warm against his suddenly shivering skin. "Easy," he heard her breathe; she’d moved behind him to study the damage that he couldn’t see and her touch stirred fresh discomfort that he endured with gritted teeth. "Don’t move," she advised gently. "You’ll just make it worse."

"Uhuh," he acknowledged, watching the world swim around him. She was doing something back there - touching the torn muscle with a butterfly gentleness rather than the pressure needed to stem the bleeding. He twisted his head round to see what she was up to, the sensation feeling decidedly strange - and focused on her half closed eyes, seeing the crimson blood painting her lips where she had pressed them against the wound.

"What - ?" he reacted, pulling away in alarm - and promptly fainted, spilling forward as an unwelcome darkness reached up and swallowed him ...

She’d been careless. Savagely careless. She’d been so fervent in her need that she’d acted without thinking, striking as if she sought prey. Her prize was damaged, his life threatened by her eagerness, his supple reflexes marred by pain. It had been so long. She’d forgotten how soft and tender a man’s skin could be, how easily it could be broken. And the wounds to his shoulder were deep, his struggles to escape her giving her cause to clench her grip and damage him further.

She fought for self control as she studied the hurt she had wrought. She’d been so inspired - and her own eagerness had betrayed her. Her nature too. She had not fed before she took him, and faced with the scent of his life she’d been unable to resist the temptation it offered. If only he hadn’t seen ... Still - he was beautiful. And his blood had proved as sweet as any she had tasted in all her long existence. She savoured every drop as she cleaned and tended the wounds. He stirred but did not wake as she worked, something she was grateful for; she doubted he would understand the purpose of her care, and there was a slow pleasure in each sweep of her tongue as it slid over soft and sweated skin, tasting the warmth of his life in a seasoning of salt and iron.

She dealt with the shoulder first, wincing as she discovered just how deep her claws had sunk home. The bleeding didn’t want to stop; she packed the wounds with the dry moss she used for her own injuries and bound it in place with strips of softened hide. Then she worked down, over damaged ribs where her claws had raked long indentations across the firmness of battle hardened muscle. Her fingers fumbled with buckles and fastenings, fighting against the desire to simply rip the confining leather away and expose the meat beneath. This wasn’t a slaughtered corpse, left to rot on the battlefield. This was a living man, warm and tender, filled with fire. Her prize, taken from the conflict in fulfillment of that ancient promise.

The leather had protected him from some of her savagery. The wounds on hip and thigh and buttock were less deep than those she’d torn in his exposed shoulder. She cleaned them with the same gentle care, unable to help caressing the hard lines of his body as she did so. He carried scars - what fighting man didn’t, forged on the battlefield? - but only enough to add interest to her explorations, nothing that marred his overall appeal. She paused to picture the battle, recalling the splendor of the fight and the fire of the men who had won it. The strong, stalwart warrior and his agile, dauntless partner. Either man would have suited her, but she was pleased with her final choice.

He would live. He had to.

She had paid for her pride, paid over and over; she was a monster, cursed and accursed, an eater of carrion, a devourer of flesh. It was her understanding of that that had driven her into this self enforced exile, refusing the pursuit of war, no matter what it might deny her.

But now battle had come to her mountain; had stirred her heart and given her this precious gift.

It had been so long.

She covered his nakedness with a soft blanket woven from her own feathers, and sat down beside him to await the moment when he awoke again. He was hers now, hers to cherish and possess. She would let nothing take him from her before the promise was fulfilled.

Nothing.

The rockface beside the waterfall looked intimidating, but Hercules tackled it without hesitation, climbing straight up despite the slickness of the rock where the wind spattered the spray from the fall. It took him an hour to climb, each careful step a frustration to his inner fury, adding fuel to the fire that consumed him. It had been a long time since he’d succumbed to the heat of such a rage; a part of him protested it even now, knowing that revenge solved nothing, that the death of this Harpy would not bring back his friend, or restore the shattered equilibrium of his heart. But while she lived his heart could not be whole; she was a monster who would kill again and again, destroying the lives - not just of her victims - but of the families they would leave behind.

Like Xena did, a small voice at the back of his mind suggested ironically. He ignored it. Xena had been a strong human soul not yet totally consumed by hate. Celæno was just a monster, corrupted by the gods like all the monsters he had destroyed over the years. Feeding on human flesh. Living to hurt and destroy.

Oh, by Zeus, he swore softly, pausing in his climb to rest his head against the coolness of the rock and take a weary breath. Iolaus, I’m sorry. If I’d just moved a little faster ...

He’d once stormed the gates of Hades to bring his partner back from an unjust death. That had been Hera’s fault, her Enforcer sent deliberately to destroy all that Hercules had ever cared for. But he could claim no such divine intervention on this occasion. This was an event woven by the Fates, threads of circumstance brought together to create one single tragedy. Besides - he knew Hades wouldn’t even listen to a second demand for clemency.

He could only hope that - while he struggled to avenge his partner’s death - the man’s soul was already walking to the Elysian fields, where, no doubt, he would be welcomed by Deianeira and by Alcmene.

And perhaps by his beloved Ania, who might yet forgive the way his heart had strayed over the years ...

Hercules started climbing again, his determination driving him upwards. He had no time now to recall the details of his loss - the brightness of a wicked smile, or the easy company that had carried him through bleak moments and defended his back without complaint. He would mourn when he had something to mourn, when he could toss the Harpy’s corpse on a funeral pyre and so give a true Hero of Greece a fitting end.

Right now he had a monster to kill ...

'Spoils of War' - Chapter One. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys trademarks or copyrights.
© 1998. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill