Morning was a long time coming. Hercules did not sleep, although the airy upper room that the lodge had prepared for him was comfortable enough. He paced mostly, fretting at his inabilty to act and weighing his options over and over. Missy was right; he had to compete, because refusing to do so would be like writing an immediate death sentence for his best friend.
On the other hand ...
He struggled to pin down just why he was concerned about Ares getting his hands on the arrow. It had shown no evidence of power, other than that brief flicker that his presence had seemed to inspire. The priests of Hermes, along with King Arcas, were eager to be relieved of the responsibility it represented. But Ares didn’t collect works of art purely for the sake of it. Perhaps it had something to do with Pentheos’s policy of paying off mercenaries. The idea than men might be paid not to fight would almost undoubtedly rankle with the god of war.
He couldn’t unravel the mystery, nor could he help Iolaus by wearing a groove in the floorboards. He gave up on both conclusions and sleep and went down to find himself an early breakfast.
Missy was already up, tenderly checking the condition of the sick doe she was currently nursing in the main room. Her dogs ran to welcome him, a forest of eager noses and wagging tails. He extricated the smallest one from the milling feet of its bigger brothers, patted the huge mastiff and the even larger wolfhound, and made his way across to greet his hostess, who rose to her feet as she heard him coming.
She looked more the part that morning. Her right arm was still bare, but she was dressed in tooled leather and suede, her hair was tied back with strips of coloured thonging, and she was armed with both sword and hunting knife. She made a sturdy warrioress, her manner forthright and her appearence practical; in her hunting leathers she looked like a woman who could - and would - take charge of a situation with blunt and candid authority.
"Good morning," she noted warmly. "Ready for a day at the games?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I have to be. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell Azan and his brothers, though. Will you be there?"
"Not today." She reached to relieve him of the little dog’s weight, tempting the beast with a morsel of food that she snagged from a nearby dish. "My hounds are restless, and today - today I have promised to take them hunting. The girls will go with you, though. Don’t let them get into mischief."
He smiled, despite his mood. "I won’t. I promise. Missy - "
"Mmm?" She was paying attention to the dogs, who pressed against her eagerly; her glance up was distracted. He wondered how best to say what he thought was needed - and decided that honesty was probably the best approach.
"You’re weren’t thinking of - tracking those mercenaries, were you? If you did - if you could find them - you’d just make yourself a target for Ares too. I don’t want that to happen."
She said nothing, moving away to put oats in a bowl and place it beside the doe.
"Iolaus wouldn’t want it either," he went on, wondering if she was really listening to him. She paused to offer him a small smile, then went back to her preparations. He heaved a sigh of exasperation. "I mean it," he insisted. "Even if you could find him, Ares wouldn’t let Iolaus go, not now. There’s nowhere on earth that you could hide him -"
"Hercules," she interrupted gently, "I am going hunting. You are going to the games. And I promise you that I will do nothing to endanger your friend. He’s my friend too, you know?"
There was no guile in her expression; if she was dissembling it was with an artfulness he wouldn’t have expected of her. He tried to fathom the truth in those silver eyes and found only amusement in their depths. Perhaps he was reading too much into this; even if she did go looking for a trail to follow if was unlikely that she’d find one.
"I know," he admitted, letting the matter slide with another sigh. "I’m just worried about him, that’s all. I don’t want to be worrying about you as well."
"Then don’t," she advised, lifting a bow to her shoulder and shooing the dogs towards the door. She paused as she passed him, smiled a sympathetic smile - and stood on tiptoe to press a friendly kiss to his cheek. "Everything will work out fine," she breathed. "You’ll see."
He watched as she left with confident steps, the hounds racing around her with excitement. He wanted to believe her, but he knew his brother too well to accept easy assurances, however well intended they might be. It was all up to him now. He had to win the games and, with the victory, the arrow, the only thing he could be sure would ransom his friend..
All the same ...
He walked around the firepit and through the dividing curtain into the sacred space at the back of the lodge. The inner room was filled with early sunlight; a soft breeze shivered at the green boughs that decorated the simple altar and the statue of the goddess that stood above it. He glanced around a little self consciously and half cleared his throat. "Uh - Artemis?" he queried to the general air. "I don’t normally ask you for favours, but - I’d really appreciate it if you made sure Missy stays out of trouble. And - uh - if you see Iolaus around? He could really do with a hand, if you’ve got one to spare."
He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, or even how - but he woke with reluctance, climbing out of the release of sleep into an awareness of acute discomfort. He groaned involuntarily, and eased his weight as best he could, a move he immediately regretted since it roused all sort of protests in muscles that had started as simply numb. He took a careful breath and opened his eyes, finding his world unchanged, although the torch behind him had died to a dull glow. There was no sign of Ares, although he had the oddest sense of his presence, nestled uncomfortably close; it was as if the dark god loomed over him, concealing him in his shadow.
Guess he’d want to hide his tracks.
Just in case Herc came looking for me ...
There was a comforting thought in that, however unlikely it might be. He had no illusions of being extricated from this situation by the imminent arrival of Hercules; he knew - as well as Ares obviously did - that the son of Zeus would not risk his friend’s, or any other man’s life, by pursuing a bold and defiant rescue. He’d make the bargain - even if it meant doing what his brother demanded for a while. Getting out of here was going to be strictly his business for the time being.
And it was about time he did something about it, too.
He pushed that nagging sense of Ares’s presence to one side and concentrated on practical matters. There was no sound in the cavern, not even the murmur of voices drifting in from the other tunnels. Which meant ...
Iolaus twisted round carefully, a quick glance over his shoulder affirming that he was quite alone; Karvo might have posted a guard, but if he had the man had either abandoned his position or else had thought that he only need watch the outer tunnel. No doubt the mercenary had assumed his prisoner was well secured and unlikely to attempt escape.
Which just went to show how much he knew.
A determined stare up into the gloom of the timbers revealed the way the supporting ropes had been anchored - both knotted to a single cross beam before being looped over the main strut. Their captive allowed himself a small grin at the discovery.
"Piece of cake," he muttered to himself. Which it would be - if he hadn’t been hanging there for hours letting his arms get numb and his shoulders set at all the wrong angles. He’d have tried this earlier, but - damn it - Ares’s little experiment had hurt. And he’d needed the time to recover his strength, not to mention his equilibrium.
He hadn’t intended to fall asleep.
Any more than he intended to stay where he was for any longer than was necessary.
The first careful twist was agony - but it slid the relevant loop that little bit closer to its match on the other side. He let himself swing back and took a determined breath before he repeated the manoeuvre in the opposite direction. One arm slowly tensed, taking the whole of his weight, and then he added the twist, flipping the rope along the beam. Right side, then left, then back again in studied deliberation. It was slow, careful work that ate at his strength and sent blades of pain shivering through his arms and shoulders; he was dripping with sweat and effort long before the two loops touched, but he didn’t dare break the rhythm until they had.
"Piece of cake," he repeated stubbornly, no-one there to convince but himself. He was wrestling for breath and the world was swimming. He stretched a foot downwards, looking to see if he’d gained enough length to reach the floor, but touched nothing but air. That meant he had to do this the hard way.
"Okay, Iolaus," he told himself firmly. "You can do this. You just need to focus."
Focus ... His mind refused to do so, assaulted by the protests of his upper body; his hands were numb and his shoulders were now screaming at the barest hint of movement. But he had to move, or the pain would become unbearable. He could do this. He had too. He closed his eyes for a moment, looking for something else to concentrate on.
If I don’t get out of here ...
He recalled the laugh with which Ares had left him and the look of triumph in the dark god’s eyes - and he shivered, using the anger the thought inspired to generate some of the adrenaline he needed. He took one last deep breath, locked his hands together - and pulled, lifting himself up through a slow jack knife, using his shoulders as a fulcrum, and twisting up and over in the sort of acrobatic motion that he could usually execute with an almost effortless ease.
It hurt like the fires of Tarterus.
But it brought him to lie, weak and shaking, across the supporting beam, his weight balanced across his hips rather than through his hands. Numb fingers fumbled with the ropes, some small part of his mind thanking fortune for the protection that his armbands had offered him. The leather was chafed and worn where the hemp had cut into it; had it rested against naked skin his wrists would be raw and bleeding by now.
He hung in the dark for a moment or two, savouring the sensation of blood returning to his fingertips and rubbing a little feeling back into his upper arms. He was wearing a little grin of triumph as he tipped himself forward and somersaulted to the ground. That hadn’t been too hard. Now all he had to do was sneak past Karvo and his band, make his way out of this mine and then figure some way to find and warn Hercules about the arrow - along with some way of getting that crystal away from Ares before he realised his prisoner had escaped.
Easy.
The sort of thing he did all the time.
Right?
"Right," he affirmed with wry resolve, rubbing some of the sweat from his face and wiping his hands down his thighs. It would help if he didn’t feel as if he’d been stamped on by a dozen Titans.
The embers of the torch revealed a narrow tunnel sloping upwards and he slid along the wall, senses alert to any sound or movement ahead of him. There was a junction, lit by another torch - and a sleeping guard, who he tiptoed past with trepidation, only relaxing when he’d reached the shadows of the upper passage.
That was easy.
Almost too easy in fact. But then, he had a long way to go before he was really out of trouble.
The girls started out being on their best behaviour as they escorted their guest through the woods. They had appeared dressed completely alike that morning, in short white tunics, long laced sandals and decorative armbands, a perfect trio of demure young ladies. But they rather spoiled the image by giggling at Hercules’s attempt at conversation and then racing ahead to pluck the feathered tokens from the way markers; they danced around him when he caught up with them, waving the tokens with almost practised sychronicity.
"Yay, Hercules," they chorused.
"Gonna win the games," Lupa crowed.
"Gonna show them all," Niale chimed in.
"Gonna show the god of war, who’s the best of all ..." Alceste capped with delight. Hercules stared at them in disbelief.
"Girls," he pleaded. "Girls ..."
They danced to a halt and had the grace to look vaguely ashamed.
"You - uh - don’t want us to cheer?" Lupa asked, sounding disappointed.
"Ah - come on, Hercules," Niale begged. "We were just trying to cheer you up."
"I know," he said patiently. "I know. But I don’t think you should be making fun of Ares. Not in the circumstances."
Alceste looked at her comrades and sighed. "He’s like - uh - right, you know."
"Yeah." Lupa’s feathered token drooped dejected. "Sorry, Hercules."
"Guess we didn’t think," Niale added, equally despondent. He was faced with a trio of long faces and his heart thawed almost immediately.
"Well," he allowed, "Maybe you can cheer a little. But leave Ares out of it, okay? And - " His hands gestured in a mime of restraint, "just keep it - under control. Mmm?" They shared a glance that held an entire conversation, nodding their agreement with a readiness that made him frown at them suspiciously. "Promise?"
"We promise," Lupa agreed, lifting the bundle of feathers and shaking them gently. "But we want you to win."
"You bet," Niale agreed.
"Hercules always wins," Alceste stated firmly. He had to smile at their confidence.
"Not always," he corrected modestly. "But - "
"Most of the time," a deeper voice interjected mockingly. "Which, for once, is exactly how I want it. Well, well, Hercules. Aren’t you going to introduce me?"
Hercules turned, finding his half brother lounging against a nearby tree and eyeing up the girls with hungry eyes. "I don't think so," he decided coldly. "Girls - you go ahead. I’ll catch up with you at the gate."
"Kay," they agreed in chorus, backing away from the presence of the god with wary - and slightly awed - eyes. Ares laughed.
"Starting them young?" he drawled. "Or just taking up baby sitting as a sideline?"
"What do you want?" Hercules demanded, folding his arms and staring at the unwelcome interloper with stern eyes. Ares looked hurt.
"No stomach for small talk today? Well, maybe not." He jumped down from the tree roots and strolled closer as if he hadn’t a care in the world. "I just wanted to make sure you understood our - arrangement. After all," he drawled with relish, "a man’ s life does depend on it ..."
Iolaus paused to check the tunnel ahead of him, searching for a whisper of fresher air or some hint of an exit. Nothing was immediately apparent, but the floor sloped upwards so he followed it, still hugging the wall and moving as quietly as he could. It was dark and the rock was cold beneath his fingers, but his spirits rose a little as he covered ground. They rose even more when he turned a corner and saw a vague glimmer of light ahead of him. Daylight, not torch or flame. It outlined a narrow entranceway which was still some distance away; he was in the entrance to a side tunnel that branched off a broad access shaft which sloped up at a fairly steep angle.
He grinned and stepped out in eagerness - only to nearly collide with Karvo and a companion, who chose that moment to appear from another side tunnel just ahead. The sudden flare of torchlight nearly blinded him; he dropped back in alarm and heard the mercenary curse in equal startlement.
"What the - ?"
Iolaus recovered first, barely pausing to consider turning tail and running back into the tunnel. That was pointless; the way out lay ahead, and only two men stood between him and freedom. He charged to the attack, counting on surprise to give him the odds he needed.
Karvo cursed and half stepped back into the tunnel he’d just left, yelling for assistance at the top of his lungs. That left the other man to deal with and Iolaus had no time for finesse. He simply dodged the first clumsy swing that came in his direction, grabbed the man’s arm and punched him out, once, twice and a third time to knock him down. He took a breath and a spare second to shake the resultant discomfort from his protesting shoulder and arm, then headed towards the light. He wasn’t quite quick enough. The mercenary had stepped in his way, forming a looming shadow between him and the way out.
Everything seemed to happen at once; Iolaus only hesitated long enough to throw the man a sheepish grin before he zigged back and then zagged forward, intent on escape, not conflict. Karvo grabbed. His fingers sank into fabric and tugged, hard. Something gave, but not enough to free the would be fugitive. He tried to wriggle out of his captive clothing, twisting round as he did so, and kicked, desperately, aiming to push the man back and give himself room to run. The impact was hard - and landed right where it was guaranteed to hurt the most, doubling the mercenary up in startled agony. Iolaus slipped the last of the cloth, turned, and bolted for freedom, hearing the sound of pursuit drumming up the tunnels behind him. The grin re-emerged with a hint of triumph. They were armed and armoured men. If he could get a good enough start ahead of them, they’d never catch him. Not once he was out of the mine and into open ground. And if there were forest out there, that would be even better ...
"Where is he and what have you done with him?" Hercules demanded tightly. Ares chuckled.
"Now, you don’t expect me to answer that question, do you? Of course you don’t. He’s somewhere safe. More than safe, in fact." His hand was playing with a blood red crystal that hung on a long chain around his neck. "You win me that arrow - and I’ll give him back to you. I think. Maybe. Maybe not ..."
Hercules strode forward, seizing the leather clad god by the jerkin and looming over him. "I’m sick of your games," he declared. "I want straight answers."
Ares stared down at the offending grip, then up at its owner with mild amusement. "Temper, temper," he chided. "You should be careful how you throw your weight about. Someone might get hurt ..."
Hercules released his hold and half turned away, frowning angrily.
"I want some proof," he said. "Something to show he’s still alive. Or I’m not going through with this."
Ares studied him reproachfully. "Don’t you trust me?" He sighed, patiently. "I suppose you don’t. Oh well - how about this." He pulled the chain that held the crystal over his head and held it out, the stone nestling in his palm. Hercules glanced at it suspiciously, seeing the soft pulse of colour even in the sunlight.
"This?" he queried. "What’s this?"
The god of war smiled an evil smile. "Your friend’s heart. See how it beats? Isn’t that pretty?"
"His - ?" Hercules stared at him, his face furrowed. "Don’t joke with me, Ares. That isn’t funny."
"No? I thought it was," Ares confided warmly. "But it’s no joke. I hold his life in this stone. And all I have to do is - " His fingers closed over the jewel with a snap, and then slowly began to add pressure, his expression savouring the moment, taunting his brother, daring him to believe or - by disbelieving - allow him to finish the deed ...
The passage was steep and the effort added to the weariness that threatened his pace, but he ran up the slope in haste, conscious of the pursuit that now howled behind him. It was only a little way ahead, a tempting arc of light, filled with hints of blue sky and freedom beyond. He could feel the fresher air on his face, taste the sweetness of morning rain. He was so close. Just a little further -
The pain clenched in his chest with sudden fire, jerking him to a startled halt. It snapped around him like a band of steel, a savage pressure that drove the breath from his lungs and staggered him into the nearby wall.
No ...
He screamed an inner protest, lacking breath to give it sound or substance. His knees buckled. The pain increased. He clawed at the rock, dragging himself towards the light with desperation.
Not now. Please - not now ...
The pressure squeezed tighter, an inescapable agony that blossomed from his heart and consumed his soul. He heard the footsteps of the chase grow closer and he forced himself forward, each crawling pace an effort of will, his hand reaching for the light, his senses swimming around him. Darkness crept up, swallowing him, devouring him.
Please ... he pleaded inwardly, fighting the pain, fighting the moment, feeling the approach of death in the grip that closed around him. Shadows flickered behind his eyes, barely glimpsed memories that were written starkly across the parchment of his life. Old friends, older enemies; women he had loved and been loved by in return. Fleeting echoes of might have beens and roads not taken; of his lost wife and the child whose brief life still burned so brightly in his soul. And clearer, strengthening images - of friendship and shared sorrows, of trust and brotherhood, all bound up in a man he was proud to call his friend.
Herc -
He reached inside himself, struggling to lift himself up, to go on, to not give up. He had the will but not the ability. His own body betrayed him, tormented by the crushing pain that encircled his heart. He crawled even so, fighting to draw in air that his lungs could find no space to hold. The light called him. The light was where his friend was waiting. Where she was waiting, like a goddess cloaked in moonlight.
The darkness was closer now; the pain seemed a long way away.
She had broken vows to lie with him, had risked the wrath of Olympus to snatch one sweet night in his company. And he wanted to see her, even if it was for just one last time.
Missy ...
If he met her goddess on that last road, from whom would she demand the price for their shared transgression?
Artemis - forgive her ...
Forgive me ...
"Give me that!" Hercules snatched at the dangling chain, tugging the crystal free from the dark god’s grip. The stone swung into his palm, warmed by more than immortal flesh, and lay there, pulsing rapidly.
"Hey," Ares protested, trying to snatch it back. "That’s my property."
"Is it?" Hercules fended the god off with a shove that slammed him into a nearby tree. Leaves rained down as the branches shook under the impact. "If this is what you say it is, I think Iolaus has a stronger claim."
He was looking down at the jewel as he spoke; the dark red light that pulsed within it slowly settled to a less demanding pace. The pace, in fact, of a mortal heartbeat. He frowned, disconcerted by the quiet warmth that he now cradled in his hand. He wasn’t sure if he could believe anything that Ares said, but - by Zeus - it certainly felt as if this crystal had some connection to his friend.
In fact, he could almost swear the man was standing right next to him ...
"It’s mine," Ares growled, picking himself up and glaring at his brother. "But - keep it for a while if you want. It’ll remind you of what’s at stake here." He dusted a few stray leaves off his shoulders and settled the disarray of his clothing wth a shake. "It’s not as though I’m asking you to make much of an effort. You know you’ll beat these feeble mortals without breaking a sweat."
Hercules scowled at him, carefully looping the silver chain over his head so that the crystal was settled safely below his throat. "I prefer fairer competition," he said tightly. "But you’re not leaving me much choice."
Ares found him a smug smile. "No, I’m not. You know - " he considered thoughtfully, "this is something of a change for us, isn’t it? You - helping me …"
The look that he earned was filled with thunder. "I’m not doing this for you," Hercules pointed out. "And you’d better keep your side of the bargain, or else - " He turned to walk away, too angry to complete the threat. The god of war laughed softly.
"Just win me that arrow. That’s all I ask. Need any help?"
"Not from you," was the instant reply. Ares’s easy smile slipped into a vaguely vexed frown as he watched his brother walk away.
"Typical," he muttered. Discord - who promptly shimmered into existence beside him - lightly polished her fingernails against her leather straps and held out her hand to study the effect.
"Told you he wasn’t happy about this," she preened. "And he took your pretty jewel. Good job he doesn’t know what it really is."
"Discord," Ares growled, rounding on her threateningly.
"You called?" she questioned sweetly, seemingly unconcerned by his menace.
He stared at her for a moment, then relaxed into a villainous grin. "Just make it - difficult, okay?"
She shared the thought in his eyes for an amused moment, her own sparkling with wicked delight. "Okay," she breathed. "This is going to be more fun than I thought ..."
Hercules strode out of the woods and along the road to the city, his face set with lines of fury. It was only as he neared the edge of the lake and had sight of the city walls beyond it that the anger faded, giving way to pensive concern. He paused by the dock where he had found the abandoned token and glanced out across the sullen water, his fingers curling protectively around the soft warmth of the crystal that now hung at his breastbone.
There was an odd comfort in the quiet pulse of the stone, an echo of that easy companionship which had never failed to cheer him on days when the burden of his chosen life hung heavy on his shoulders. Hercules’s journey was driven by a sense of duty, a feeling of obligation born of his immortal inheritance - and while Iolaus was hardly less mindful of what they did or why they did it, he pursued the path with a lighter heart, trying to seize every moment that the world had to offer. He was a faithful friend and a loyal partner - and had remained so despite constant encounters with hideous monsters, savage warlords and vengeful gods. A sane man would have sought an easier road a long time since, but Iolaus ...
Hercules sighed, uncurling his fingers to press the jewel between his palm and the beat of his own heart. There’d been a time - it seemed a long time since - when he’d tried to keep his friend from giving his life to such a partnership, a time when he’d genuinely believed that he would be better travelling alone, free from the ties of kinship, and unfettered by the bonds of friendship. He’d feared to draw the fate of his beloved family down on those others that he loved - and, in the end, he might as well have tried to persuade the sea from the shore or the clouds from the sky. One day, perhaps, there might be reasons for the hunter to turn from the trail, but even then they’d be reasons that would tear at his heart. They’d been friends for a long time, partners nearly as long - and as long as he felt that Hercules had need of him, Iolaus would be there, a mortal daring to play with the fires of heaven, willing to give even his life if losing it would serve his friend.
He’d proved that more than once - and the son of Zeus prayed that such a price never be asked of either of them again. To lose his partner would be to lose a part of himself, the spirited, good-humoured part that lightened the journey and made each day an adventure in itself. Even if he did tell tall stories and came up with the most impossible of jokes ...
"Hang on, buddy," he muttered, half to himself. "I’ll get you out of this, I promise." He didn’t quite know how, but the promise was made, and he always kept his promises. He could start by winning the Hermia - and the arrow that Ares so dearly desired .
Iolaus had come to the conclusion that this was definitely not his day. Finding himself still alive had been a bonus of a sort, but - here he was - suspended once again in the dimly lit cavern, this time with his arms spreadeagled at full stretch and the air chill against his bare shoulders.
Back to square one ...
Or back even further, going by the presence of two surly guards who were glowering at him with clear resentment.
At least he wasn’t wet this time.
And the sense of Ares’s presence had left him; the dark shadow had been replaced by something far more welcome, even if he didn’t understand how it had happened. When he’d woken, it had been to the feeling that Hercules was standing next to him. He’d even turned, expecting to see that familiar face smiling a little at his predicament and getting ready to cut him down. There’d been no smile - and no friend either, although that sense of closeness remained undeniable.
He was shivering, all his energy leeched away by the battle he had fought in the tunnels; he could no longer feel his hands and the agony that wracked his shoulders was heading way past screaming pitch. The hunter closed his eyes and turned his concentration towards that strange, if welcome, feeling of company, reaching for the warmth and strength it offered him. He often wondered if Hercules was ever aware of the aura he generated, that inspiration of self born of his semi-divine nature. It was as much a part of him as his legendary strength or the kindness of his heart. Iolaus figured that it had to be - every one of the Olympians he’d met had radiated at least a hint of their divine aspect, from Ares’s cloak of arrogant menace, down to Aphrodite’s you know you want me confidence. The son of Zeus was no exception, although he never seemed to notice - or take advantage of - the charismatic assurance that he generated. It meant that even angry mobs tended to stop and listen to him, that his arrival in a place filled with dispair could rally tired souls when everything seemed utterly hopeless - and that he could inspire the best in those who fought beside him, despite weariness, despite overwhelming odds, despite everything.
Iolaus smiled to himself, drawing on the surety of his friend’s inner strengths to reinforce his own. There’d been a time when he might have hesitated to do so, feeling like a thief, stealing something he had no entitlement to, but he had spoken to Alcmene about it - just the once - and he remembered how she’d laughed, pausing to pat his cheek with motherly affection. Oh, Iolaus, she’d chided softly. As if he’d wouldn’t give you all his strength if you had need of it. You take all the inspiration you want. I know I do ...
It did nothing to warm his blood or ease the ache of abused muscles, nothing to abate the exhaustion that dragged at him, or to invigorate his weary flesh; but it steadied his heart and fired his determination, driving back the threat of despair and holding desperation at bay.
There would be a way he could survive this.
And if not - well, Hades and he were old friends, right? Acquaintances, anyway. He’d seen his father walk into the Elysian fields, so...
"Is he awake?"
Karvo’s voice was a harsh intrusion that jerked him back to reality. The mercenary strode into the cavernous space and up to his prisoner, his hand tangling in blond locks to savagely tug their owner’s head back and round. Iolaus found himself staring at a snarl of anger, the man’s eyes written with resentful fury. It looked like his entire band was gathered behind him.
"Hi," he managed, trying to sound nonchalant. Karvo spat in his face.
"You," he growled, dragging his victim’s head back a little further. "Do you know what you’ve cost us? We came to Pheneus for the games; we were going to have a little fun in town, a little drinking, a little whoring - you know the kind of thing?"
His audience would have nodded, but the grip on his hair allowed him no freedom of movement with which to respond. The men around them murmured resentfully.
"Well, now we’re stuck down this stinking mine, forbidden to even stick our heads out for some fresh air until the games are over. All because of you. What do you say to that?"
Iolaus twitched an apologetic smile. "Uh - sorry?" he ventured, wincing a little because he knew that would not be an acceptable answer. It wasn’t. Karvo punched him in the side, a brutal blow delivered with contempt.
"That’s no compensation," the mercenary hissed, looming close enough for his captive to gag on his breath. "So here’s the deal. You are going to provide the lads with the entertainment they deserve. Something to keep us all amused for the next three days."
"Really?" Iolaus’s mind raced, heading rapidly for a moment of pure panic. Entertainment could mean almost anything - up to and including his being used as a substitute for the whoring Karvo had just mentioned. The thought - and the prospect - was not an appealing one; weakened and bound as he was, he wouldn’t have a hope in Tarterus of defending himself.
Not that that would stop him trying of course ...
"Uh - I don’t think - Ares - would be - happy about this idea," he suggested, seeking inspired refuge in the god that had got him into this mess in the first place. "He told you to - take good care of me, remember?"
"Screw Ares," Karvo said, clearly savouring the opportunity to say it. "I heard what he said. You can’t die - not as long as he’s got that crystal of mine. Which means we can do anything we like - and you’ll still be here for his bargaining." He punched a second time, convulsing his victim with reactive pain. "I told you not to get any ideas. Nobody hurts me like that. Nobody, you hear? Hey lads," he offered, releasing his grip with a forceful forward shove. "The games begin today. Who wants to make a bet?"
"What’s the first event?" someone called, generating a round of laughter. The suggestions flew thick and fast.
"Target practice?"
"Boxing?"
"Wrestling?" a voice suggested from somewhere behind him, the implication clear in the manner in which it was phrased. The company laughed a second time. Iolaus tensed, watching Karvo as he paced round to study their prisoner with speculation. The men who clustered around them both were a decidedly unsavoury bunch, exactly the sort who might decide to do more than just joke about such things.
Gods - if they so much as touch me ...
He might not prevent the deed, but he was pretty certain he could kill at least one of them before they had their fun.
"Later," their leader decided, measuring the dangerous look in his captive’s eyes. "He’s a little fiesty for that, yet. How about - " His glance drifted round to alight on one of his men and the weapons he carried. An evil smile lit up his face. "The Laconian lash?"
The man he’d chosen grinned, stepping forward to unlimber the coil of leather he had hitched to his belt. Iolaus took a moment to heave an inner sigh of relief - then froze, recognising exactly what the man had in his hands. Not a simple leather whip, or even a slaver’s lash, but a true Spartan scourge - one with several thongs, each of which ended in a sharp metal barb.
He swallowed involuntarily. It had only been two nights ago that he’d heard Missy tell the tale that now sprung to mind - how the priests of Artemis in ancient Laconia had once sacrificed a young man to their goddess by flaying him alive - and how, even now, they employed the scourge on their own backs in penance for their ancestors’ zealous pride.
Two, maybe three strokes are enough to make the blood run free ...
"I’ve got ten dinars saying the sixth stroke will be the one to make him scream," the owner of the lash declared, weighing the weapon in his hand.
"The seventh," someone capped.
"The ninth."
"The fifteenth," Karvo offered, watching his prisoner with a satisfaction worthy of his chosen god. Iolaus forced a slow breath, searching for the inward point of focus with which he might endure what was about to happen. This wasn’t the worse they could do to him, but it was going to hurt all the same. His sense of Hercules’s presence armoured his soul; his memory of Missy gave him reason to defy their game. He knew a few techniques that might help him, ways to divorce his mind from his body and to seek refuge in a place of inner stillness. All he needed was something to focus on.
They deem a man especially pious if he can make it to ten before he lets the whip fall ...
He wasn’t usually a man who’d call on the gods for help - he knew too many of them too well to rely on assistance from that direction - but right now he was in need of all the help he could get. It probably wouldn’t do him any good, beyond the focus it would provide, but if they were going to treat him like a sacrificial victim, he might as well make the sacrifice mean something. He resolved to offer each blow to Artemis, as payment for the kisses that he had stolen in her temple, to dispatch each moment of pain with a prayer, rather than the screams they wagered on. Let them bet on his self betrayal; he would endure.
Somehow.
"All right, gentlemen," Karvo declared once all the bets had been made. "Let the games begin!"
The event was not going well.
Hercules had picked the discus as his first competition, judging that it would be an easy contest to win and earn him early points. He’d felt embarrassed telling Aphidas and Elatus that he would be competing and not Iolaus, particularly since he had no convincing way to explain why. Discord had appeared to warn him, waving a chiding finger as he’d begun an explanation, her presence concealed from mortal eyes - which, of course, included the king and his three sons.
"One word," she’d warned, "and our little arrangement is off. If they knew there was a life involved they’d just give you the arrow. And where would be the fun in that, hmm? Tell them - he took sick. Or that - he changed his mind. Or maybe - "
"There were signs of poachers in the forest last night," Alceste had announced, smiling warmly at the eldest brother, who immediately paid close attention. "Missy was concerned that they might have been setting traps. Iolaus is such a good hunter - so ..."
"I get it," Elatus had interrupted, his eyes on Niale’s youthful figure. "I mean - if you asked me to forget the games and go with you, I’d be there like a shot. "
Niale had giggled. Lupa had distracted Azan and nobody else had asked for an explanation. Hercules had left the girls in the royal box entertaining the King and enchanting his guests, some of whom were so entranced that they forgot to watch the games. Aphidas had declared he would win the entire games for one chance of kiss from Alceste, who’d merely smiled at him and sent him out onto the field practically swooning.
Which had left Hercules to concentrate on the competition.
Which was definitely not going well.
There were only three competitors who offered any kind of challenge; Aphidas, a broad shouldered athlete from the south of the province, and a Thracian mercenary hired by the warlord Garcian. Aphidas’s first throw was a good one - over a hundred paces - and it earned a cheer from the local crowd. The southerner matched it. The mercenary beat it by a dozen paces.
And Hercules had tripped, faulting the throw and burying the discus a good foot into the turf. The priest who was watching to make sure that the altheletes didn’t cross the line had had to jump out of the way, and he eyed the damage to the ground where he’d been standing with disconcerted eyes.
"Sorry," Hercules said, noting with a small wince that it was the same man whom Iolaus had managed to hit the day before. He’d picked himself up and glowered around, hearing Discord’s giggle even if no-one else had. The crowd had murmured with confusion and he didn’t blame them. He wasn’t normally that clumsy.
Aphidas threw a second time, extending his distance to just beat the mercenary. The southerner’s second was nearly as good. The mercenary matched his first throw.
And Hercules tripped a second time, just as he reached the line.
The disc skipped out of his hands and knocked the watching priest flat on his back. Hercules picked himself up and then extended the courtesy to the fallen man, who was looking a little the worse for wear.
"Sorry," he apologised again, bending down to retreive the discus. The man scurried out his way with alarm and once again, Hercules heard Discord giggle.
"Is that the best you can do, Hercules?" a voice jeered from the crowd.
"Some hero. Falls over his own feet!"
"Ignore them," Aphidas advised, walking up for his third and final throw. "Everybody has a bad day occasionally."
"Yeah," Hercules agreed, stepping back to the waiting area and weighing the discus thoughtfully in his hands. He couldn’t afford to have a bad day - and he had a decided suspicion that on this occasions his bad luck wasn’t a matter of luck at all. It would be just like Discord to sabotage his chances; she enjoyed spreading disaster - and besides, she’d never forgiven Iolaus for turning her into a chicken, that time ...
"You can do it, Herc!" Alceste’s voice cut through the general sound of the crowd.
"Put your heart into it," Lupa’s suggested immediately afterwards. He turned to glance in the direction of the royal box. The young Amazons immediately leapt to their feet and shook their feathered tokens in encouragement. He had to smile at their exuberance.
"My heart," he muttered. "Right." The thought gave him reason to glance down - and his free hand flew to the crystal in alarm. The colour within it was racing, a panicked erratic flutter like the shadows a trapped moth might cast, beating its wings against a lantern glass. "Iolaus?" he breathed, a shiver of fear running through him. He didn’t know how to interpret the message of the jewel, but he knew something was wrong. He curled his fingers around the gem and willed it to be calm, hoping that by doing so he could send some of his strength through whatever tenuous link this stone might represent ...
"Twenty one."
The count was as rhythmical as the stokes it measured, each paced by three even breaths; the arm lifted, the scourge flew back - and then drove forward, a tearing shock of weight and pain.
"Twenty two."
Each impact convulsed its victim with reactive agony. But he did not scream. Had not, through all the searing contact of leather and metal against his skin.
"Twenty three."
There was blood running down his back, blood and sweat soaking into the leather of his pants, caking the palms of his hands where he had gripped the ropes that held him in his agony.
"Twenty four."
There was no reality except for the pattern of his pain. The scream of torn skin, the pounding of his heart - and the moment of connection, when white hot spasms pierced his existence and made him dance.
"Twenty five."
He endured with gritted teeth, with strangled breath and stubborn pride. He swallowed every scream that rose to his lips, swallowed it, held it in - and directed it as a prayer to powers he knew would not answer him.
"Twenty six."
The men had started their game with raucous calls and disparaging remarks. Now they too were silent - silent but for the chorus of indrawn breaths as each blow struck home. They were practically panting in time to the count, eager for him to fail, willing him to fail, waiting for this savage torture to be given a voice.
"Twenty seven."
The cry was caught in his throat, struggling to be released; his body was on fire, from wrist to waist he was nothing but living flame, incandescent in its fury.
"Twenty eight."
That blow was lower, his torturer either seeking fresher flesh to torment, or else growing tired; the barbs of the lash cut leather and then skin beneath.
"Twenty nine."
Sanity was slipping. He was the scream, a fragile vessel, filled with the sound of it, waiting for just one more blow to shatter him and set it free. He could take no more ...
"Thirty."
Nothing changed. The fire burned just as fiercely, the pain of the strike was just as intense; but something flooded into him, an unasked for strength that smothered the traitorous howl just as the caress of the lash unleashed it.
"Thirty one."
He did not question the gift. He used it, letting his senses slide into the hand that somehow cradled him, abandoning the pain, leaving the blaze behind. It was the place where death should have been awaiting him; but that door was locked tight and the way beyond it out of his reach. The shadows were a cool refuge from the fire and somehow held echoes of a friend.
"Thirty two."
His body jerked once with the blow. His head fell back, then rolled forward. His eyes closed. His lips moved once, forming the shape of a man’s name.
Herc ...
And he greeted the darkness with a smile.
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