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Spoils of War Pythia Chapter Two |
Iolaus woke slowly, a bleary return to consciousness that never quite achieved the sharpness of perception that he might have expected. He felt as if he were floating, the nagging pain of his wounds oddly distant, his sense of self equally displaced.
I’m light headed, he concluded fuzzily. Weak from loss of blood ...
But at least he wasn’t dead.
Was he?
He opened his eyes cautiously, finding a flickering pattern of light dancing above him on a white crystalline surface. He was half sitting, half lying, buried in the support of those odd feathers, their softness a warm comfort against his skin.
"Welcome back," a melodious voice whispered. He turned his head - meeting a pair of dark eyes, Celæno’s smile curving below them. He froze immediately, a disturbing image of blood stained lips springing to mind. His first thought was an anxious one.
I think I’m in trouble here ...
But then - if that were the case, why had he woken up at all?
I’m not going to eat you, she’d said. I promise ...
Her raven eyes were looking down at him with quiet concern, not appetite. "I have water," she said, reaching for something behind her. "Here - "
He tried to sit up the rest of the way, and regretted it. The world spun around him and a savage fire flared inside his shoulder, almost as if he’d been stabbed there afresh. He fell back with a gasp of pain, fighting nausea and cursing his own helplessness. If she did mean him harm he was in no condition to defend himself.
"Don’t," she begged, her hand going to his uninjured shoulder. "Please - don’t waste your strength. Just rest."
"Who are you?" he croaked, eyeing the cup she offered with suspicion. He was shivering with displaced pain and his throat felt like he’d been shoveling desert down it. He needed that water - but he didn’t trust her. Not after what he’d seen ...
"Just - Celæno," she answered, those dark eyes taking on a haunted look. She slid her hand behind his head and put the cup to his lips. A tentative taste revealed the contents to be nothing more than she promised and he drank the rest without protest, watching her over the cup as he did so. The water was cold and very welcome; it had a fresh, earthy taste, like something from a good mountain spring. She put the now empty cup to one side and reached to touch his injured shoulder, a gesture he began to pull back from until he realised that the damage had been both cleaned and bandaged. Bandaged with what looked like animal hide at first glance, but definitely treated. Maybe he’d judged her intentions a little too quickly ...
"You must rest," she insisted. "The wounds here are deep and may start to bleed again."
Her concern was reassuring; he glanced down at the padded bandage and quirked a small and rueful smile. "I’ll be good," he promised, only too aware that he currently lacked the strength to do anything but rest. She echoed his smile with a sad one of her own.
"Good," she breathed. "Then I can leave you to attend to other matters. I won’t be long, I promise."
He settled himself into the comfort of the unusual bed, and found her a disarming grin. "Take as long as you like," he offered generously. "I’m not about to go anywhere ..."
"I still won’t be long," she shot back, starting to climb to her feet. He put out his hand - the good one - and caught at hers, drawing her back.
"Celæno - " he began to say, then let go, wrestling with brief embarrassment. "Thanks. For - taking care of me."
Celæno looked momentarily startled. "I do what I must," she said. She hesitated, then - with a sudden return of her smile - dipped and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "Now rest," she instructed, springing to her feet and hurrying away - although not without a backward glance in his direction as she vanished into the rest of the cavern complex.
"Yes, mother," he murmured, tipping his head back with a small sigh. Gods, but he hurt. There were nagging protests scored across his ribs, a stab of pain in his thigh, another in his hip and a distinct discomfort that implied he’d have to be careful where he chose to sit down for a while - and the whole of his right shoulder felt as if Callisto had targeted one of her pet fireballs at it. To top all that he now realised that his clothing had vanished along with his mysterious nurse; he was completely naked under the warmth of his feathered blanket.
This started out as such a simple day ...
He sighed a second time and relaxed despite the insistent protests of his body. He was warm and far more comfortable than he might have expected. He’d have to remember this. A feather mattress was a lot better than one stuffed with straw. He closed his eyes, tempted by sleep. He ought to stay awake. He didn’t know where he was, or even what had happened to him. Something had attacked him. Something with claws. Something that might be out there, just waiting for Celæno to wander by.
Ah, he dismissed sleepily. Herc’ll take care of it ...
The thought of Hercules brought him back to instant wakefulness. Maybe whatever it was that had attacked him had also attacked his partner. Perhaps the son of Zeus was lying somewhere, torn and bleeding, just as he was. Perhaps he hadn’t found help ...
He made a heroic effort to get up, managing to lift himself as far as his knees before pain and dizziness overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and clung to his determination, fighting for both breath and equilibrium.
There was a sound - an odd sound, like the flap of a sail released into a squall - and a sudden flurry of air that tugged at his hair and chilled his sweated skin. "No," he heard Celæno cry - and she was there, her arms supporting him, lowering him back to the cocoon of warmth that he had left. "I told you to rest," she chided, wiping the sweat from his face with a gentle hand.
He opened his eyes, shivering with effort. "Herc. My friend - " he gasped, expressing his fear with economic ease. She was frowning at him.
"Does this friend mean so much to you that you would kill yourself to find him?" she asked tartly. He didn’t need to answer her; the look that chased across his face was eloquence enough. "Oh. I see. Well - have no fears on his account. No harm has come to him."
He wondered how she knew. "Then - he’ll be - looking for me," he insisted. Why was he so weak? Surely he hadn’t lost that much blood. Had there been poison on those claws?
"Rest," she insisted. "You are safe here. Trust me."
Trust her? He stared up at her earnest expression, at the concern that sat on those delicate features. Could he trust her? She’d told him nothing about herself, or where he might be - but she had treated him with kindness. And the anxiousness in those raven eyes looked genuine enough.
"Okay," he acquiesced, relieved to be able to let go for the moment, to relax back into that soft warmth and let his exhaustion take him. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He’d made the effort. He could ask no more of himself than that.
"So much spirit," he heard her murmur. She sounded amused. He felt her hand stroke his cheek and then slide down, caressing his neck and chest. It was a very gentle touch, and it swept away some of the shivering pain that was keeping sleep at bay ...
Hercules lifted himself up onto the next ledge and sat there for a moment, frowning down at the valley. Night was falling; the sun had sunk behind the mountain’s shoulder a good half hour since and it was growing difficult to see the way ahead. He’d climbed steadily all afternoon, leaving the river behind as he picked his way through what the old man had termed the ‘high pass’. The land was wild here, but not barren. There was plenty of game, from agile footed mountain deer to fleeter footed wild hares. Rich pickings for an experienced hunter - or for a monster with swift wings and taloned claws that could strike down from the air ...
He sighed and sat back, resting his weight against the strength of the mountain. It couldn’t be much further now. There’d be a cave of some sort; one tainted with a foul stench and littered with gnawed bones. The creature would probably be sleeping, savouring her feast.
His throat and stomach both clenched at the thought. This kind of thing would have been bad enough to face when the monster’s prey was faceless villagers, simple souls whose fate was undeserved. But this was personal. And a part of him didn’t want to go any further. Not if there was a chance he might find recognisable remains.
Maybe she hasn’t even eaten him yet.
Harpies prefer carrion.
Perhaps she’s hung him up somewhere - to ripen a little first ...
He shivered, although the evening air wasn’t cold. He’d been tormenting himself with similar thoughts all afternoon. They kept his anger running high. It was just that -
What was he doing?
He was running headlong into this situation, so blinded by his need for revenge that he was likely to make a fatal mistake and get himself killed in the process. He had to stop and think. Had to get past the anger and get a grip on himself. Night was no time to go blundering into a monster’s lair, no matter who he was. Being the son of Zeus might give him certain advantages but he was hardly invulnerable. And this - Celæno - was fast. He knew that.
He’d just worn himself out climbing a mountain in half the time it should have taken. He needed to be fresh for the coming fight. He had to win this one.
He owed it to his friend to get it right.
He stood up, clambering off the ledge and onto the next rising slope. There was an overhang that offered some protection in case it decided to rain, and a swathe of grass that offered a little more comfort than bare rock. Water tumbled past him, rushing down a narrow gully on its way to join the river below. It chafed to stop, to consider sleep over the need that burned inside him, but he had to do it. He was certain now. Iolaus was dead. A few more hours wouldn’t make any difference, except to ensure that his murderer faced retribution. He would rest, and in the morning he would complete the climb.
He wanted to face Celæno, not her shadow in the dark.
He wanted the gods to see her die ...
Night spun its dark arms across the world as she returned to her lair. She hadn’t wanted to leave, not now, but fear had lifted her into the air, sweeping her territory with anxious concern.
He’ll be looking for me, he’d said. She’d not given the other warrior a moment’s thought until then. But he would be coming. She had seen how they fought together; more than comrades. More than brothers. That kinship had driven a weak and exhausted man to risk everything because he feared for his partner; that same partner who would have seen him snatched away and feared the worst. She knew what she was.
He would be coming with her death in his heart.
But she couldn’t give up her prize. Not now. This wasn’t like most of those other times, when her choice had been made and the answer given all in a few heart beats. She’d hurt him, and he’d thanked her. No one had ever thanked her before. She’d always offered herself and been taken, sometimes by force, by men filled with the adrenaline of battle and the heat of base desire.
There hadn’t been any of that in his eyes.
And she wanted him more than ever because of it.
There was no sign of the muscled warrior near the falls or in the mouth of the pass. It was a long way for a mortal man. He would still be lower down, she thought, climbing through the night in search of her lair.
What will I do when he comes? she wondered, taking a moment to fold her wings and taste the scent of the night air. He would see only the monster, not the woman it concealed. She would have to defend herself. And she would fight to the death to retain her prize, no matter who came.
There was a sharpness in the night that made her shiver. She stalked into the cavern on all fours - and then walked the rest of the way on two, draping her wings around her until the magic worked and she was herself again, just a woman in a dark raven’s robe, aching to be held. Needing to be loved.
Just once.
Just so that she could remember what it was like to be alive.
Iolaus woke to darkness; the darkness of the deepest hours, the ones that lie at the heart of the night. He felt uncomfortably hot, cocooned in a clinging softness - and he still hurt, the reminders of that quick to stir at the slightest movement.
Nor was he alone.
There was a soft arm encircling his back, and a warm body pressed close against him; her head was resting on his undamaged shoulder and her other hand ...
He held himself very still, and not just because to move invited stabs of agony across his shoulder and down his arm. This was not a situation he found himself in very often - not uninvited, anyway - and he wasn’t entirely sure how to react to it.
With indignation perhaps?
She was a very beautiful woman, and he would have been more than willing in normal circumstances, but - this really was taking advantage, wasn’t it? He’d had women throw themselves at him before of course. Even caught a few.
Okay. More than a few.
It was just that - usually - he had some say in the matter before they became quite so intimate. And the strength to dissuade them if their attentions were unwelcome ones. Right now, however, he was weak as a kitten and a little distracted by the discomfort of his wounds.
Shivering too - and that was crazy, because he was sweating from the heat. He felt as if he were stifling ...
Maybe I’m dreaming.
She stirred and shifted against him, the curve of a naked breast brushing against the tender skin over his ribs - and the soft movement of her fingers doing interesting things to his heart rate.
"Oh boy," he breathed, the protest of pain denying any possibility of his being in a dream - and wondered if a diplomatic way out of this dilemma was to fake one and come round in a panic. It would probably hurt like Hades but it would refocus the circumstances a little.
Do things like this happen to Herc? he wondered, trying to picture his partner in this situation. Of course, Hercules was a gentleman with a remarkable amount of self control. He’d probably just disentangle the lady concerned, apologise to her nicely and be vaguely embarrassed about the whole affair.
Iolaus realised that he didn’t know anything about this particular lady. She was as much a mystery as the place that held him and the events that had brought him there. But she’d said that it had been a long time since she’d had company ...
He sighed, wishing his thoughts would coalesce into more coherent sense. It was nice to feel wanted, but he wasn’t exactly in a fit state to do anything about it, right there and then. Actually, if he was honest about it, he didn’t feel too good at all.
In fact, he felt decidedly ill …
He bent his head and nudged gently at her with his nose. "Uh - Celæno?" he gasped softly. "Wake up, will ya? That’s a real nice thought you’ve got, but - I’m hurting here."
He was shivering, his body filled with fire and his skin slicked with sweat. She had only wanted to hold him for a moment, to remember what it was like to lie so close - and she had drifted into sleep, encircled in the pretense of his arms around her. What had he thought, waking to find her there?
If only I had not struck so deep ...
She wanted to howl at her own stupidity. Her prize burned with fever, not passion; the heat of it was focused in his damaged shoulder, but it consumed the rest of him, threatening his strength, his life.
She fetched fresh water from her spring, first helping him to drink and then using the rest to cool his skin, wishing she knew how to do more. There would be herbs she should gather, ways to dull the pain and fight the fever, but she’d never learnt those skills, never had to. Wounded men were prey, not patients.
But he was hers - and she didn’t want him to die, didn’t want to lose what he had already given her.
He slipped away from her as the fever took hold, losing himself in a mutter of words and restless motion. She slid in behind him, settling him against her so as to keep him from reopening his wounds and held him there, his head resting against her heart. The heat of his body burned into her; the ragged effort of his breath stirred emotions she feared to face.
Don’t let him die, she prayed, speaking to gods she had denied a long time ago. Gods who had cursed her, created her - and abandoned her, with nothing but a mocking promise to keep her from true monstrosity.
To the victor the spoils of war ...
If he died, then she would too. She would give up that last piece of her heart and become what she was made to be. She would seek out the smoke of battle and feast as was her right. She would stalk the field and strike at the dying, tasting the bitter sweetness of their blood. She would ravage the wounded and scavenge the dead -
- until the day a true hero came upon her and sent her black soul screaming into the pit.
If he died.
If the promise was broken ...
Dawn came with soft fingers of light that slid their way across the peak of the mountain. Hercules stirred and woke, easing the kinks out of chilled muscles with care. The night had been cold; a faint hoarfrost lay slicked across the stone wall of his chosen shelter and his breath painted the air with mist. His sleep had been a restless one, disturbed by anxious dreams.
He dipped his hand into the ice cold stream and splashed away the last of his bleariness; then warmed up his body with the stretches and exercises he had been taught back in his days at the Academy.
Cold muscles betray you, Ceridion had said. Always be ready. Always move.
He closed his eyes, wrestling with the memories as he banished the chill from his limbs.
Why must I take so much care? he’d asked one day, bored by the routine and wanting to join his friend in the combat ring. You never make Iolaus spend so much time on this.
Oh, Hercules, their mentor had laughed. Iolaus never stops moving ...
It had been true. The man had danced through his life, restless with energy, always in motion, hard to keep still. Only poised in the hunt, or perhaps stationed on watch, would he rein back that spirited vitality, and even then he would stand like a taut bowstring, needing only one word or one sign for his spirit to be unleashed like a hurricane.
And now the whirlwind was stilled, the dance finally come to an end …
The son of Zeus retrieved the sword from where he had left it, close to hand in the night, and slid it back into place at his belt. The heat of his anger had died, leaving only bitter ashes. He might have warmed his limbs, ready for the coming fight, but no amount of exercise would drive the chill from his soul.
He turned and took a long look out into the valley, seeing a distant plume of smoke that marked where the village lay, far below. It would be a long walk back - and longer still to reach those places where he must go once this was over. To Corinth, where he must tell a mother of her son’s untimely end - and where the Argonauts would gather to add a name to the roster of their honored dead. To Attica, so that a Queen might mourn the hunter she had wanted to make her King. And on, to seek out a dark haired Warrior Princess, and a man they called the King of Thieves, friends who would want the word from his lips and not from those of a stranger.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, turning to stare up at the last obstacle - the nearly sheer rock face that guarded the mountain peak. Somewhere up there lay the Harpy’s lair.
Today he had an appointment to keep.
The first light of dawn had begun to flicker across her crystal spun ceiling when the fever finally ran its course. He slid from his exhausted struggles into a deeper, healing sleep and she laid him carefully back into the softness of her nest, thanking those gods who had heard her prayer - along with any of those who were watching out for him, regardless of her need. She didn’t want to leave him, but she had to - he would need sustenance to restore his strength and there was nothing he might eat, not in her larder. She paused to cover him over with the warmth of the blanket, frowning at the sweat soaked hide that bandaged his shoulder. There was infection in the wounds; she could taste its cloying presence, tainting the deeper notes of his distinctive scent. She would have to do something about that when she returned. She just wished she knew what. Perhaps he could advise her when he woke - and he would wake, that much she was certain of. The first battle was over; together they would find a way to win the war.
And after the war, the victory ...
She smiled, bending to press her lips against his - gently, so as not to wake him. He lay still, like some golden treasure nestled in a dark sea; his face was pale, but his breathing was soft and regular. As regular as his heartbeat, that paced out his life with reassuring strength.
"I won’t be long," she promised, leaving him reluctantly, turning at the archway to catch one last glimpse through human eyes. Then she walked down through the outer cavern, past the spring which caught the light and sent it dancing through her lair, and out, into the sharpness of the morning, feeling the change come over her as she shifted into her true shape.
Not long ...
One strong downbeat and she leapt into the air with ease. There would be deer, feeding at the lake above the waterfall. And rabbits.
Yes.
Rabbit would be good ...
The last few feet were the hardest. Hercules had to practically drive his fingers into the smooth face of the rock to gain a hold. He crawled up the angled surface with gritted determination and finally lifted himself onto the wide ledge at its apex. The peak of the mountain rose above him like a jagged tooth - and the place he sought lay below it like a gaping cavity. She’d picked her home with care; there would be few men who could assail the practically vertical rock face, and once past it they would be exposed and vulnerable. The entrance was set a little way back from the edge, leaving an open space that could be defended from the air.
He clambered to his feet and looked around warily. The air up here was fresh and the wind was brisk; the place lacked the charnel atmosphere that he’d been expecting. Still, this had to be the place. The marks of claws were scored into the rock at his feet, and there were a few dark feathers scattered at the opening of the cave.
He drew the sword from his belt and stalked forward, scanning both the approach to the lair and the open sky above it. If she were home, he could expect her to come charging forward in challenge. If she were out and in the air then he was exposed to a more direct attack. Whichever way she came, he would be ready for her.
Because, in his mind's eye, he was replaying the savage speed of her stoop - and the convulsive jerk of her unsuspecting victim as her talons struck home …
"Celæno!" he called, offering her fair challenge, crying her name into the wind. The sound of his voice echoed back from the cavern ahead, but no other voice answered it. "Celæno!"
Silence greeted him. Nothing moved in the shadowed depths - or fell from the sky, screaming its defiance.
"Guess nobody’s home," he concluded a little disappointedly. He would have to wait. He took another glance at the sky and then carefully walked into the cave, looking for a suitable place to prepare his ambush.
The space beyond was breathtaking; a white walled vaulted cavern, glittering with crystals and lit by a flickering reflection of light from the spill of water that lay just inside the entrance. It was a grotto rather than the festering lair he expected to find. Soft moss cloaked the edges of the pool; the water was fresh, a spring bubbling up at its center. Beyond it the rock rose in a series of shallow ledges, natural archways marking entrances to further caverns in the complex.
Hercules began to wonder if he were wrong. There was nothing that indicated a bloodthirsty monster had chosen this place as its home. No scattering of bones, no foul stench, no - he caught back an intake of breath, his eyes alighting on what looked like a bundle of rubbish practically hidden in an alcove on the far side of the cave. He waded across the pool, the touch of the water ice cold and invigorating, climbed onto the first ledge and ran the rest of the distance, his stomach clenching in tight knots as he did so.
Don’t let it be what I think.
Please …
His prayer went unanswered. The bundle wasn’t exactly what he’d feared it might be, but the discovery was bad enough. He used the sword point to push apart the pile of crumpled leather and dipped down, pulling free the ragged waistcoat that lay, half hidden, underneath.
No ...
He went cold all over, a deep seated shiver that reached all the way to his soul. The fabric in his hand was stained, stiffened and encrusted with a dark coating of blood. Too much blood. He closed his eyes for a moment, his fingers clenching with pained reaction. There had been a part of him - a desperate, drowning part - that had been clinging to the vaguest possibility, the barest chance. Now that last hope was dashed, shattered by the proof that lay in his hand.
Iolaus ...
There was a lifetime of memory in that one thought, a swirl of emotion far too complex to analyse even if he’d wanted to; he felt as if a piece of himself had been torn away, leaving him wounded, bleeding, and reeling from the shock. He drew in a shaky breath, focusing that pain down into determined anger.
And something moved behind him, briefly blocking the shimmer of the light.
He turned with a snarl, the bloody waistcoat falling forgotten from his grip. It took less than a heartbeat to make sense of what awaited him - and then the sword was sweeping up over his head, angled to attack as he launched himself forward with a wordless cry of rage.
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