This story was originally printed in The View from Olympus, published by Cinda Gillilan and Jody Norman at NeonRainbow Press, 1998. It has been transposed into an WEB page for this website as it was sent to me.
Rated R for violence and other adult content including incest among the gods, and bad language.
by E.A. Week
1.
Agenor checked around the noisy tavern cautiously, trying not to seem too obvious. He'd planned to meet his supplier here tonight. Agenor took in the other patrons of the tavern, a rough, rowdy bunch. Good. The last thing he needed was to be seen by one of the king's men.
A slaver just couldn't make a living anywhere these days. When the new king had taken the throne, he'd immediately begun a crackdown on illegal slave trade. He'd hanged some of the most wily men Agenor had ever known. Agenor had no intention of sharing their fate. He'd exercised intelligence and caution, but the shrinking number of suppliers made plying his trade more and more difficult. And risky.
Agenor spotted his contact at last. He went to the bar, ordered a tankard of ale, then meandered slowly and casually back to the table where the supplier waited. He studied this new contact carefully. A middle-aged man, bald and bearded, with a nervous, jumpy manner about him, and greedy eyes. And he'd brought company.
Agenor took a seat opposite the pair, glad of the tavern's noisy din, which would provide cover for their conversation.
"Salaemon," said Agenor. His gaze flicked to the tough thug seated beside the supplier. "You made it." He swallowed ale. "Who's your friend?"
"Him?" said Salaemon with a dismissive gesture. "He works for me." The dealer's arms and legs, thought Agenor. "His name is Stump."
"Stump?" Agenor echoed.
"Well, maybe 'Gimp' would be better," said Salaemon with a smug chuckle. "His leg is bad, so he stumps around. But his back is strong." The supplier gulped his own drink. "He doesn't talk, either."
Agenor studied the henchman, a powerfully built man of indeterminate age. Stump looked filthy and unkempt, his face thick with stubble. He had big, callused hands, and eyes that smoldered with hostility. He wore a dirty rag wrapped about his throat.
"Why not?" asked Agenor.
Salaemon wiggled forward on his bench. "Maybe you've heard of Xena, the warrior-princess?"
Agenor grunted. "Who hasn't?"
"You know that round metal thing she throws?" Salaemon drew a line with his finger across his throat. "Severed his voice box. One of her men got his leg with an arrow."
"You're lucky that's all she did." Agenor stayed well-clear of Xena. She'd been ruthless and bloodthirsty in her earlier days; she would be just as much a nuisance to him now in her new role as a public do-gooder.
"So Stump's useful," said Salaemon. "Strong, stupid, and silent." He laughed at his own pathetic attempt at wit. Agenor evaluated Salaemon and Stump with care. First, he'd see just how good a supplier Salaemon turned out to be. If he proved useful, Agenor would cultivate a partnership with him, then kill him once he'd learned Salaemon's source. Stump would probably appreciate a change of employer.
"I understand you got some livestock to unload," said Agenor. He always used farming expressions when conducting business, on the outside chance he might be overheard.
"Oh, absolutely!" said Salaemon. "Three fine young fillies." He lowered his voice. "From a nobleman's estate." Agenor's heart briefly jumped with excitement. Noble-born slaves, especially women, were a rare commodity.
"Only three?" he asked.
"Well, I could probably throw in a couple of... lesser quality animals," said Salaemon. Which meant the noble-born captives would be accompanied by whatever wretched peasants the supplier could goad Stump into kidnapping.
"What's your price?" asked Agenor.
Salaemon gave his prices for the nobles and the peasants. High, but less than Agenor had expected. He'd turn a healthy profit when he sold the slaves to their new owners.
"I'll have to inspect the merchandise first," said Agenor. Best not to sound too eager.
"Of course," said Salaemon, beaming with that irritating, ingratiating smile of his. "Do you know the village of Itys?"
"Yeah," said Agenor.
"Meet us there at midnight tomorrow," said Salaemon. "There's an old barn right outside the village on the west road." Agenor knew the place well. The old barn, isolated from the main village, sat near a patch of thick woods. Agenor mentally calculated how much time he'd have before dawn would force him to take his captives into hiding. With luck, he might make it into Megarid, a state whose less zealous king turned a blind eye to slavers.
"Deal," said Agenor simply. "Have the merchandise ready." He finished his ale. "And if anyone follows you there, you're dead." He set down the tankard and left the tavern.
*****
Agenor got to the barn well before midnight, wanting to check the place for hidden traps, but the tumble-down old building stood desolate and empty. He took a position in the shadow of a lean-to and waited, keeping his eyes and ears open.
When the moon had risen to its midnight position, Agenor detected the quiet sound of wagon wheels. He grew tense. A few moments later, a large wagon appeared on the road, drawn by a pair of mules. Salaemon walked on foot, leading the mules by the reins. Stump rode a large horse behind the wagon. Agenor waited until they'd stopped to look around for him, before he stepped out of the shadows and approached Salaemon.
"You got them?" he asked without preamble. Salaemon nodded, glancing about nervously.
Stump dismounted from his horse and lurched over to the rear of the wagon. He hauled out a human-shaped bundle and dragged the bound captive to where Agenor stood with Salaemon. The henchman yanked off a hood, revealing a muscular young woman of average height. By the moonlight, Agenor could see that she had good features, dark hair, and pale eyes, probably blue or gray. She had a frightened, defiant look on her face. Stump dragged over a second captive and removed the hood. This one struggled, and Stump had to give her a rough shove. Like the first, this woman had dark hair and pale eyes. Her features were even better, she was taller and more slender, her hair dressed in an elaborate coronet of braids.
Salaemon paced impatiently while Stump dragged over the third woman. This one writhed like a serpent, but Stump quickly subdued her. He pulled off the hood. Agenor felt a surge of excitement. This woman had the unmistakably arrogant bearing of nobility, even under these circumstances. Her skin was creamy, her hair and eyes as dark as night. She gave Agenor a murderous look. He'd have to be careful with her. If she gave him any trouble, a few lashes from his whip should keep her in line.
"I'll take them all," said Agenor. He went swiftly to his own wagon and returned with a small money chest. Salaemon counted the coins, nodded, and closed the chest. "Get them into Agenor's wagon," he barked at Stump.
"You said you had others?" asked Agenor.
"Of course!" said Salaemon, in an exaggerated whisper. "In my wagon." Stump still grappled with the women, so Agenor strode over with Salaemon to the supplier's cart. He reached into the straw, felt a head, and yanked it up by a thick tangle of curls. Too late, he realized his mistake. The hair was connected to a body neither bound nor gagged, and most definitely male. For a moment, Agenor could not move due to shock, then a hard fist slammed into his face. He released the man's hair and staggered backward, falling to the ground.
For one brief moment, Agenor thought the captive must have cut himself loose, but then he saw Salaemon's robe and sandaled feet scurrying away from the wagon. He'd been hoodwinked. Gut instinct told him to flee, but that wretched bastard Salaemon had his money. The curly-haired man jumped down from the wagon. Agenor just managed to leap out of his way, ducked, and bolted in the direction Salaemon had taken-- toward the old barn. But a large shape flew out of the darkness and knocked him to the ground. Stump! Immediately, Agenor struck out, driving his knee into the henchman's bad leg. Stump didn't even seem to feel it, as the two men wrestled furiously. Agenor realized the injury was a sham.
So was the supposed damage to Stump's vocal cords. He pinned Agenor to the ground, bellowing, "Iolaus, get me that rope!"
The curly-haired man brought over a length of rope. Agenor struggled furiously, but his opponents, clearly hardened fighting men, had the advantage of strength and numbers.
"I've been looking for you, Agenor," said Stump. "You just made your last trade, you filthy, flesh-peddling monster!" He grabbed the slaver's shoulders and hauled the man to his feet. Beyond Stump, in the moonlight, Agenor could see Salaemon freeing the women-- all of them part of this trap.
"You work for the king, you double-dealing bastard!" gasped Agenor.
Stump grabbed the slave trader by the throat. "I am the king," he said, in a low, deadly voice. "I'm going to hang you, Agenor."
The slaver saw only one chance left at escape. He kicked, catching Iphicles in the knee. The king's grip loosened for the one instant it took Agenor to writhe loose. The tough little man with the curly hair attempted to grab Agenor, but the slave trader winded him with a savage head-butt. Agenor then fled blindly toward the dark forest.
"He's getting away!" Salaemon yelped. Agenor reached the trees and plunged into the undergrowth. Branches whipped at his face. With his hands still tied he had no way to cover his face, but he kept running, propelled by blind panic. He could hear crashing behind him.
Agenor found a familiar path and raced along it, hoping desperately that the king's men didn't know this section of woods as well. He didn't hear any more footfalls, so he ducked off the path into a pocket of deep shadow. He worked a dagger out of his boot, then maneuvered it up to the rope that tied his wrists. In a moment, the razor-sharp blade sliced through the bonds. Agenor resheathed the knife, checked the woods around him, and began to creep along with as much stealth as he could manage. He had to get clear of these woods soon, across the meadow, and into the deeper forest on the other side. If he could make it through Phlegra undetected, he could hopefully escape into Megarid by the following day.
Agenor knew he could best avoid capture by traveling through the thick swamp that lay at the western edge of the Phlegran forest. The king's men would never find him in there. Rumor painted the place as dangerous, but Agenor would rather take his chances than die on the king's scaffold.
He reached the edge of the woods, and peered out across the moonlit meadow. He'd lost the king's henchman, Iolaus. With luck, he'd eluded Iphicles also. Keeping low, Agenor headed out across the meadow.
He heard a sound: the unmistakable rhythm of hoofbeats. He saw the blurry shape of a massive horse looming in the distance: the king's white stallion. Agenor abandoned all pretense of caution and fled for the forest with every ounce of his strength. He'd have an advantage on foot once he reached the trees, but out here in the open, Iphicles would run him down in no time.
The trees seemed to rush out to greet him. Agenor could feel the ground shake behind him as the horse grew closer. Agenor's lungs almost burst for want of air, then he shot into the scrub, ducked, and plunged into the dense trees. He dodged tree-trunks as he made his way blindly. Here in the thick of the forest, the canopy of leaves almost completely blocked out the moonlight.
He heard the quiet snapping of branches behind him: Iphicles had chosen to pursue his prey on foot. Agenor cursed mentally and kept moving, hoping to throw the king off his trail. The slaver knew of a ravine in this vicinity; he made his way in hopefully the right direction. He could take cover for the night, then resume his escape the following dawn. The gully should be close at hand.
*****
Iphicles heard the scream clearly, a brief, startled cry of terror. Then silence.
"What was that?" gasped Iolaus.
"Agenor," said Iphicles grimly.
The two men proceeded carefully, the only light provided by an occasional glimmer from the moon. Iolaus experienced a sudden crawling sensation on his skin.
A moment later, they came out into a small clearing. The two men stopped short, transfixed by horror. Agenor lay on the ground -- or what was left of him. Even in the dim light, they could see that the slaver's head had been taken right from his body. The decapitated corpse sprawled on the ground, gushing blood into the dead leaves and dirt beneath it.
*****
2.
Hercules hurried up the steps of the overlord's palace in Phlegra. One of his brother's guards recognized him, and waved him inside the door. Hercules almost ran straight into Salmoneus.
"Hercules!" the salesman exclaimed. "You're just in time for dinner."
Iolaus emerged from another room at the sound of his friend's name. "Herk," he said. "What'd you do, run the entire way from your mother's house?"
"Well, I came as soon as I got word," said Hercules. "How'd it go with tracking Agenor?"
Iolaus looked worried. "Not quite the way we planned," he said. "Come on in and eat, and we'll tell you about it after dinner."
Hercules detoured long enough to wash his hands at a well outside the kitchen, then returned to the great hall, where a table had been set for eight. He reached over to clasp his brother's hand, then gave Rena, his sister-in-law, a brief hug and kiss. Dirce and Phoebe greeted him with affectionate hugs, also. Josephus, overlord of Phlegra since Iphicles had become king, also sat at the table. Hercules gave the young man a handclasp.
"So, you caught Agenor," said Hercules once they'd all taken seats. He'd badly wanted to be part of his brother's snare, but he'd feared the plan would fall apart if someone recognized him.
"Not really," said Iphicles. He accepted a goblet of wine from Falafel. "He's dead."
"What happened?" said Hercules.
"Please, let's wait until we finish eating," said Rena from the other end of the table.
"Yes, please," Salmoneus added, shuddering visibly. "Let's."
The meal proceeded pleasantly. Hercules marveled at the changes in Phlegra since the overthrow of Gorgus, Rena's late stepfather. What a difference three years made. Hercules recalled how the frightened but determined Josephus had organized the people of Phlegra to rebel against Gorgus. Now the province and its denizens prospered under the leadership of Josephus.
As they finished eating, a female servant appeared in the archway, a frustrated expression on her face, a wailing, red-faced toddler in her arms.
"I'm sorry, my lady, but he won't settle down," she said.
With a look of affectionate exasperation, Rena went and claimed her offspring. Two-year-old Alector caught sight of his uncle. Immediately, the tears transformed into an expression of cherubic joy.
"Come see uncle Herk," said Hercules, holding out his arms. Rena set the boy on the floor, and he toddled right over. Hercules pulled Alector up into his lap. "Oof, you're getting big," he said, bouncing the child on his knee. Alector gurgled with laughter.
"Sure you don't want to move in with us?" Iphicles jested. "You could give us a hand when he gets like this in the middle of the night."
Hercules laughed. "It's a stage," he said. "They outgrow it."
After a few moments, Alector decided he'd had enough, and held out his chubby arms to Iphicles.
"Want Papa!" he commanded.
Hercules handed over his nephew with a grin, feeling a quiet pang of envy at the ineffable glow of love in his brother's eyes.
Finally, Iphicles yielded the boy back to Rena with a reluctant expression. "C'mon," he said to Hercules. "There's something I want you to see."
*****
Hercules stared at the two corpses, his jaw slack. Across the table, Iphicles and Josephus looked pale and grim. Beside him, Iolaus tensely regarded the bodies. The three men had placed the mutilated corpses in a storage hut on the edge of the village, to keep them out of sight.
"This is how you found them?" asked Hercules.
"Yeah," responded his brother. "The one on the left is Agenor. He got away from us last night. We chased him into the woods. Before we could catch up with him, we heard him scream. This is what we found."
"Was he still bleeding?" asked Hercules.
"Gushing," said Iolaus. "Whoever did this must've just left the scene before we got there. We weren't about to try and find him in those woods at night."
"The one on the right is a local man, Dolius," said Josephus. "He'd gone out at dawn to tend an ewe that was dropping a lamb. One of his farm hands found him behind the barn."
"And you couldn't find the heads anywhere?" asked Hercules.
"No," said Iolaus. "We looked all over."
"But that's not the worst," said Iphicles. "We got word this morning that other people have disappeared from villages west and north of Phlegra, too, right up into Megarid. If the bodies turn up at all, they're always decapitated."
"So somewhere, someone has himself a nice collection of heads," remarked Hercules. He forced himself to examine the necks where the heads had been severed. On both men, the bone had been cut cleanly, with one stroke. Hercules saw no sign that the attacker had made any blows other than the fatal one. A quick, decisive attack.
He straightened up, and glanced out the narrow slit in the wall that served as the outbuilding's only window. Still daylight. He drew the sheet back up over the two bodies.
"Show me where you found them," he said.
*****
The four men went first to the barn where Dolius had been found. Hercules looked at the ground, then inspected the wall of the barn very carefully. Evidently, he didn't find what he sought, because he next requested to be taken to the site of Agenor's death.
As twilight settled over the forest, Hercules looked around the clearing where Iphicles and Iolaus had found Agenor's body. He looked briefly at the ground, then carefully took in the surrounding trees. Almost immediately, he found the object of his quest.
"Look at this," he said. On a trunk of one tree, at about the height of his own shoulder, Hercules found a fresh mark that bit deep into the wood.
"Both of those men were killed with one blow, but Agenor had time to scream," said Hercules. "I was hoping we'd find something like this. Whoever killed him must have struck out and missed, probably because of the darkness."
"And this is recent," said Iolaus, poking a finger into the mark on the tree. "You can still feel the sap."
"My guess is that Agenor and Dolius were both killed with an ax," said Hercules. "This cut gets narrower as it goes in." He stepped back so that Iphicles and Josephus could examine the wedge-shaped indentation. "An ax head would fit right in there." Had the two men been killed with swords, Hercules thought, the mark on the tree would have been more narrow and more uniform.
"What about something like a meat cleaver?" asked Josephus. "Those have a similar shape."
"Probably not," said Hercules. "A meat cleaver has a shorter handle, and it would have been more difficult to kill someone with just one blow. I'd say the killer used an ax with a long handle." He picked up a long stick from the ground. "And he's probably about my height." He pantomimed swinging at the tree, keeping his arms level with his shoulders. The indentation in the tree trunk was right in the path of his swing.
"Maybe he just swung up," suggested Iphicles.
"No, because Agenor was only my height," said Iolaus. "If anything, I'd have expected that mark to be lower."
"And it's straight in," said Hercules, again poking his finger into the chipped bark. "If he'd been swinging up or down, the mark would be at an angle." Hercules didn't like the rough sketch he had in his mind of this killer: someone his own size, armed with an ax, and helping himself to the heads of whoever he encountered.
The other three men seemed to read his thoughts, and shifted uneasily. Iolaus glanced at the darkening sky. "Let's get out of here," he said. Nobody argued with him.
*****
Rena checked on Alector one last time. The little boy curled up in his bed, breathing deeply, sound asleep. He sometimes had difficulty sleeping in strange places, although the palace in Phlegra was practically their second home. Silently, Rena withdrew from the room, letting the curtain fall over the archway.
She gazed around the suite, the same rooms in which she'd spent her girlhood, when she was the daughter of the house. Idly, Rena went to the dressing-table and began to brush her thick, dark hair. In the connecting room, she could hear Iphicles, still in the bathtub. He'd been scrubbing himself, as if contaminated with filth, for the better part of an hour.
Strange to come back here as a guest, even though she and Iphicles ruled Phlegra, a province of Corinth. As a girl, Rena had been mostly overlooked, which had enabled her to grow up unfettered by any real burdens. Her mother had been preoccupied with Gorgus, who had married her when he'd conquered Phlegra, overthrowing Rena's birth father. Rena had been only three, so she recalled nothing of that time. Only many years later did she put together the pieces and realize that her mother had been unhappy in her first marriage, a result of which she began an illicit affair with Gorgus. In all likelihood, she'd plotted with Gorgus against her own husband.
Rena's mother spent the next ten years bearing children: four fine sons for her husband. All had come to tragic ends: the eldest died the first time he rode into battle with his father, the second had not survived childhood, the third died when a horse threw him, the fourth died in infancy, along with Rena's mother. Perhaps the weight of grief had driven Gorgus into a life of constant warfare, and caused him to bleed Phlegra dry to finance his army. But probably his preoccupation with battle, Rena mused, had prevented him from marrying her off to some ghastly dullard of a husband, or worse, some heartless warlord.
When Iphicles and Hercules defeated Gorgus, Iphicles had inherited the oversight of Phlegra by conquest and through his marriage to Rena, the only heir to the province. King Jason had tried and executed Gorgus, and given his blessing and approval to the rule of Iphicles in Phlegra. Rena chuckled, recalling the anger of that weasel Patronius, who had fancied the oversight of Phlegra for himself. Then she shuddered, remembering that Patronius had tried to kill Iphicles on the day of Jason's wedding to Alcmene. She set down her hairbrush with a sigh. Well, everything had worked out in the end. Now, she was not only the Lady of Phlegra, her rightful position, but also Queen of Corinth, something she'd never expected.
"Iphicles, are you ever going to come out of there, or do I need to send a messenger on horseback?"
The king finally emerged, a towel wrapped about his narrow waist, tugging at snarls in his hair with a wooden comb.
"Here, let me do that," said Rena. Iphicles took a seat at Rena's dressing table. Deftly, she drew out the tangles, then set down the comb and wrapped her arms around his torso. Lovingly, she kissed his shoulders and nuzzled the side of his neck.
"Is you-know-who off to sleepy-land?" said Iphicles.
"He's off, and hopefully he'll stay there for a while," said Rena.
"Good." Iphicles turned around on the seat and scooped his wife up into his arms. "I love him to pieces, but he picks some rotten times to get fussy." Rena giggled as Iphicles carried her over to their bed. "I worry we might forget exactly how we got him into the world in the first place."
Rena had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from bursting out with laughter. It would be just her luck to wake the baby, when they'd finally gotten him to sleep. She and Iphicles quickly shed their bed clothes, and settled eagerly into each other's arms. After four years of marriage, they were still like honeymooners. But then, Iphicles froze and abruptly drew away from her.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed.
Iphicles looked down at his wife's body. "You're pregnant again."
Rena flushed with sudden embarrassment. "I wasn't sure," she waffled. "I was going to wait and see..." She stopped, aware of how utterly unconvincing she sounded.
Iphicles gently traced lines up and down, from her swelling breasts to the slightly rounded curve of her belly. "You knew this before we went after Agenor." A statement, neither a question nor an accusation.
"I'm sorry," she said miserably. "But I promised to help you..."
"Rena," he said. "We could've done it without you." Iphicles drew Rena back into his arms. "I love how brave you are, but if anything'd happened to you... or the baby..." he trailed off, unable to continue. Rena was more than his wife, she -- and their children -- occupied the center of his universe. Iphicles would rather die himself than see her harmed.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"'S okay," he said, kissing her silky hair. "Please, don't do things like that!"
"I won't, I promise!" Rena hugged him, hard. "But I knew you needed bait that Agenor wouldn't be able to resist."
"Phoebe and Dirce would have done fine," Iphicles reassured her.
"And Iolaus," murmured Rena, smiling wickedly.
The king snorted with laughter. "I'll remember the look on Agenor's face for the rest of my life, that stinking, miserable scum." He fell silent, as if thinking of the slaver's face made him wonder about the whereabouts of the head that had been attached to it. And the ax-wielding killer who even now might be stalking his next victim.
"Curfew," he said suddenly, sitting bolt upright in bed.
"What?" said Rena.
"I should tell Josephus to enact a curfew until we find this monster," said Iphicles, starting to stand. "People shouldn't go anywhere by themselves. We should--"
"Iphicles." Rena gently took her husband's arm and drew him back into bed. "Josephus is asleep. It can wait until morning."
Iphicles relented, and dropped back down beside his wife. "Yeah." They turned into each other's arms again, the urgency of their kisses driven as much by fear as by passion.
They paused when Rena began to giggle. Iphicles gave her a questioning look.
"I was just thinking about Salmoneus," she explained.
Iphicles laughed softly. "For someone who doesn't think he has much courage, he couldn't have duped Agenor any better. We're lucky he's such a good salesman."
Rena's inquisitive fingers tickled their way down her husband's chest. "And he's lucky you have such a theatrical streak--" she kissed his mouth-- "Stump."
*****
"It's okay Maron," said Josephus. "You can trust Hercules."
Maron eyed the two men with trepidation, not budging from his position in front of the dead body. He was small, but looked strong, and clutched a pitchfork in one hand.
"He came here to help," Josephus went on, keeping his voice calm and gentle. "Maron..." he said, "it's Hercules. You know.... he helps people. Now, let us see your brother's body."
"No!" said Maron, eyes wild.
"Maron, I know you're frightened," said Josephus, "but you can trust Hercules. He won't hurt you." Maron didn't budge. "He's the king's brother!"
Maron seemed to snap out of his daze. "He is?" He looked Hercules up and down, as if searching for a family resemblance. Finally, he lowered his pitchfork, and cautiously stepped aside. "I guess you're all right, then."
Hercules only needed a moment to determine that Phegus, the dead man had met the same fate as Agenor and Dolius. Phegeus and his brother, Maron, had gone out at dawn to tend their vineyard. Phegeus had only been out of sight for a few moments. A farmhand found the body.
Hercules now knew that the killer tended to strike after dark, and just before dawn. He also picked isolated victims. Dolius and Phegeus had both been working near the edge of the forest when they were murdered.
Hercules straightened up and stared toward the dense trees of the forest. The province of Phlegra lay in the river valley that ran parallel with the border of Megarid. The river originated in the forest, fed by springs that bubbled up in the deep marshland. The springs fed into small streams and brooks, which eventually joined together and formed the river itself. From these three deaths, Hercules guessed that the killer must be living in the forest, possibly in the swamp, and preying on the villages and towns that surrounded the vast woodlands.
He looked at Josephus, who seemed to be thinking the same grim thoughts.
"It'll take us forever to search that forest," Josephus opined.
"We'll have to," said Hercules.
*****
In the end, Hercules decided that just the four of them could search more effectively. Iphicles would need several days to send for a contingent of men from the Corinthian Army. And the noise and clatter of armed men would doubtless send the killer scurrying into retreat, only to re-emerge when the army gave up the search.
They waited until just after dawn the next day. Josephus had sounded a general alarm throughout the valley, sending messengers to all the villages and towns surrounding the forest. He encouraged prudence, not panic. His men warned people to stay together, to not venture out of doors after dark, and to avoid the forest.
The four men proceeded silently, single file, along the path. Josephus had his longbow with him; Iphicles and Iolaus carried swords. Only Hercules went unarmed.
Hercules had decided that their best strategy would be to start at the eastern end of the forest and work their way west. They studied the ground and undergrowth minutely, looking for anything suspicious-- human remains or clothing, evidence of a campfire, human footprints. The need for silence and caution made the frustrating, slow, painstaking work even more tense. Hercules tried to let his senses extend in all directions around him. Because of his mixed blood, he could usually tell when someone watched or followed him; he had sharp hearing and an acute sense of smell. But he could not hear, feel, or smell anything out of place in this sunny green forest.
They searched all day, pausing only long enough to consume a noonday meal of dried meat, bread, and water. By the time the afternoon sun began slanting down the horizon, Hercules had to admit defeat for the day. They needed to find their way back out of the woods before darkness fell. Besides, all four of them had grown hungry, footsore, and tired.
Josephus used his knife to make a mark on a tree trunk, so they would know where to resume their search the next day. Then the four men turned and began trudging wearily back toward the path that led to the palace.
On their way out of the forest, Hercules felt a disturbance in the air, so subtle he almost missed it. A current passed over his skin. He inhaled, and very faintly, detected the odor of an unwashed body. He listened as hard as he could, until the almost inaudible rustle of leaves rewarded him. The scent became suddenly acrid, which Hercules associated with the tension of a body as it prepared to attack.
"Get down!" he bellowed, the instant before he heard the whistling of a weapon as it hurtled through the air. The four men dropped to the path. Hercules heard a dull thuk. He jumped to his feet, keeping low, and turned about cautiously. He heard the sound of someone scrambling away through the undergrowth, not even attempting to conceal his presence. Iolaus started to give chase, but Hercules grabbed his friend's shoulder.
"No. That's what he wants us to do. It's going to be dark in less than an hour, and if we start chasing him now, we'll end up lost in the woods."
"He's right," said Josephus. "We'd be sitting ducks."
Iphicles had found the weapon: a wicked-looking ax with a double blade, deeply embedded in the trunk of a tree.
*****
3.
"The what?" asked Josephus.
"The Horde," said Iphicles. He paused long enough to drain his tankard of mead. "Savages. Last year, they raided western Macedonia. The Athenian Army had an outpost there. The Horde surrounded the garrison and killed most of the men." Iphicles nodded at his brother. "Your friend Xena helped drive them off."
"Yeah," said Hercules. "She told us about it the last time we ran into her. She said she challenged the leader of the tribe to one-on-one combat. When the leader was dead, the rest of them took off."
"Where are they from?" asked Josephus. "Who are they? Celts?"
"Nobody's sure where they're from," said Iphicles. "And they're not Celts."
The four men sat around the table in the dining room, following the evening meal. The double-bladed battle ax lay on the table, gleaming and malevolent. Iphicles radiated anxiety in palpable waves. The following day, at dawn, a messenger would ride to the city of Corinth, to alert the army to the possible presence of the savage raiders. Iphicles also planned to send messengers to the kings of the surrounding city-states, warning them of the potential threat.
"Xena said they attack in bands," Iolaus recalled.
"They do," said Iphicles. "That's why they're called the Horde. Gods only know what they call themselves. Mercer said they just attack in waves. They'll kill anything that gets in their path. Ordinary people wouldn't stand a chance, not unless they could get inside a fortified city. And then the bastards just settle back and starve you out."
"Don't panic," said Hercules. "We don't even know if it's them. All we have is one ax. And the murder victims we've seen have been picked off one by one. That doesn't sound like a Horde attack to me, at least not from what Xena described."
"What do you think we should do?" asked Josephus.
"Keep looking," said Hercules. "Just like we planned."
*****
"I didn't think this was right," said Hercules. He held up the Horde battle ax to the mark on the tree where Agenor's body had been found. The rounded curve of the ax blade didn't fit the indentation in the tree trunk.
"And look. This ax has a short handle. It's meant to be thrown, not swung." He gestured for the other three men to get behind him, then threw the ax at another tree. It whistled through the air and hit the tree with the same thuk they'd heard the day before. "The Horde axes are designed to take a man in the chest or the back," Hercules concluded.
"Yeah, but that still doesn't mean it's not the Horde," argued Iphicles.
"The only evidence we have that it might be the Horde is one ax," said Hercules.
"What about the heads?" asked Iolaus. "Xena said the Horde warriors wore head-dresses made from human skulls."
Hercules had to admit his friend had a point.
"Wonderful," Josephus muttered.
"I still don't think it's them," Hercules maintained. "They raid in bands; they attack all at once. They don't sneak around, killing people off one at a time."
"Maybe they're trying to weaken and demoralize us first," speculated Iphicles.
"If they are, what's the point in killing farmers?" asked Hercules. "I'd expect them to be killing soldiers and palace guards, doing things to weaken our defenses. I think we're after one man, someone who just got his hands on a Horde ax, and is using it to throw us off his trail." He and Iphicles briefly stood glaring at each other.
At last, Iphicles relented. "All right," he said. "We'll keep looking."
*****
The four men covered a substantial amount of forest that day, but found no signs of human habitation or disturbance. Their search took them as far as the edges of the swamp, before they had to start back for the palace, exhausted and discouraged.
A commotion greeted them when they returned to town. A dinner patron at a local tavern had gone staggering out into the woods to relieve himself, and never returned. Two employees of the tavern found his headless body in back of a wood pile.
*****
"I don't believe it," said Josephus nervously. He paced while Hercules, Iphicles, and Iolaus examined the area in back of the tavern. "Here we were, off in the woods all day, and the bastard just waited until we were gone."
"Hold still," barked Iolaus. "We can't see anything if you don't keep that torch in one place." Josephus let forth a gusty sigh and stood in one spot.
"There's nothing," said Iphicles, almost as agitated as Josephus. "Just like all the others."
"Not quite nothing," said Hercules. He'd gone around to the left of the wood pile. "Come look at this. Josephus, bring the torch."
The three men gathered to look at what Hercules had found. He'd hunkered down near a patch of wet soil. It looked as though tavern employees threw out dirty dishwater in this spot near the wood pile. In the muddy ground, the men saw one large footprint. Taking care to not disturb the site, Hercules gently lowered his own foot so that it rested inside the print. The footprint in the mud dwarfed Hercules' boot by two inches on all sides.
Hercules moved his foot, then hunkered back down beside the impression. He drew out an eating knife from his belt and teased at something in the wet soil. Carefully, he tugged out a muddy piece of plant matter and held it up in the torch light-- a short piece of vine with two leaves attached. It must have been stuck to the bottom of the killer's foot.
"So?" asked Iphicles impatiently.
"This is a water vine," said Hercules. "It only grows in swamps."
*****
The following day, the four men began their search near the swamp. Hercules went first, checking the ground carefully. In addition to looking for signs of their quarry, they had to be careful to avoid getting mired in mud or quicksand. And the deeper they proceeded into the swamp, the more water covered the ground, and the more treacherous their search became. Josephus walked behind Hercules, followed by Iphicles. Iolaus took the rear.
They progressed far more slowly than they had when they'd searched the drier part of the forest. Hercules feared they would never find anything in the swamp. Water on the ground quickly moved in to conceal any tracks. Thick curtains of vegetation provided ample coverage behind which a miscreant could hide. If something, or someone, dwelled within this place, a search party might look for months in the soggy marshlands and find nothing.
At mid-afternoon, they stopped to rest on a patch of higher ground near a large tree. In addition to hunger and fatigue, all four men were damp and uncomfortable. Water soaked Hercules from his feet to well above his knees. His mind wanted to continue the search; his body wanted a chair in front of a fire, dry clothes, and warm food.
"This is getting pointless," snapped Iphicles. Josephus nodded glumly.
Hercules fought the urge to pound his temperamental brother on the head. Iphicles expected fast solutions to this problem. Hercules knew full well that the situation was more complicated than it seemed on the surface. Iphicles tended to accept obvious answers; his brother's vast experience told him that jumping to hasty conclusions could be not only foolhardy, but fatal.
"We should start back now," said Hercules. Returning to town would take longer today, because their progress through the swamp would be slower. He hated to give up two or three hours of good daylight, but in truth, they weren't accomplishing much. Hercules knew that as they grew more tired, their tempers would flare, and they might fall right into the killer's hands.
"Fine," said Iphicles, and promptly stormed off into the undergrowth. Iolaus threw Hercules a half-apologetic, half-amused glance. Hercules let Josephus go ahead of him, then brought up the rear of their party. Why did his brother always have to be like this? Resentment, still, after all these years? You could build a boat out of the chip on his shoulder, Hercules thought.
He hurried along behind Josephus, trying to catch up to Iphicles and Iolaus. He could hear the two men, but not see them. Alarmed, he called out.
"Iphicles! Iolaus! Wait up!"
He heard a crashing and a muttering, then a sudden startled cry.
"What--" he said, angrily pushing branches aside.
"Herk! Herk!" Iolaus hung by a foot snare from a tree, swinging back and forth about twenty feet off the ground. Iphicles stood watching him, laughing.
"This isn't funny, damn you!" Iolaus laughed also, despite his frustration. "Herk, get me down from this thing!"
"All right, little buddy. Hang in there."
"Very funny!" Iolaus rolled his eyes. Hercules never passed up the opportunity for a bad pun.
Shaking his head, Hercules began climbing the tree trunk. He'd gotten up to the bough where the snare was set when he saw a faint quiver of movement in the thicket behind his brother.
"Iphicles, behind you!"
The king spun around, sword drawn, crouching low. Hercules saw the quivering branches begin to suddenly move away.
Iphicles saw this also, and plunged into the undergrowth.
"Iphicles, no!" Hercules crawled out onto the tree limb, grabbed the rope that held Iolaus, and yanked his friend up to safety. "Look out after Josephus!" he said, then dropped from the tree limb onto the ground. "Stay here with Iolaus!" he ordered Josephus, then crashed into the brush after Iphicles.
From somewhere in the distance, he heard a bellow of outrage, unmistakably his brother's voice. Hercules pushed through the undergrowth, mindless of the vines and branches whipping his face. "You filthy brute!" he heard Iphicles yelling.
Finally, Hercules emerged into another clearing. Iphicles had brought his quarry to ground. The king's face bore red welts from his charge through the dense vegetation, and mud splattered his clothes, but he was otherwise unharmed. Hercules looked at the man Iphicles had captured.
The fugitive seemed barely out of adolescence. His face and body had been painted to blend in with the undergrowth. His hair was filthy, matted, and unkempt. He wore primitive clothing of animal skins, and his nasal septum had been pierced with a bone. His dark eyes glared up from the ground where Iphicles had him pinned.
The king looked up at his brother, angry and triumphant at the same time.
"So it's not the Horde, is it?"
*****
4.
. "Iphicles, it's not him."
The great hall lay quiet for the night. The Horde warrior had been given food and water, and now stood silently while the four denizens of Corinth tried to figure out what to do with him.
By now, Hercules and Iphicles rubbed each other completely the wrong way. Iolaus kept glancing back and forth between the two brothers, as though expecting a fire to ignite from the angry sparks.
"How do you know?" the king spat.
"Look at him. He's not big enough, for one thing." True enough: the young Horde warrior barely stood taller than Iolaus. "His feet are too small."
Iphicles stopped pacing for a moment. "One of his buddies did it, then." He waved a hand at the sullen warrior. "Herk, the swamp's probably crawling with these monsters."
Hercules folded his powerful arms on his chest. "Well, what do you suggest we do, then?"
Iphicles pointed an accusing finger at his brother. "I think we should send the army in there and flush out the lot of them. That's what I think we should do."
"Iphicles, that's crazy. You know what happened to the Athenian army. If there's more of them in the woods, they're well-trenched, and any army is going to be at a disadvantage. You'd lose scores of men. For what? Besides, I don't think there's more. I think he's the only one."
"The only one!" echoed Iphicles in clear disbelief. "They don't work that way!"
"I know," said Hercules, trying to be patient. "Maybe this one just got stranded. Look at him. He looks like he hasn't had a decent meal in months." Hercules based his assumption on more than just the warrior's filthy, half-starved state. He looked frightened and desperate, not aggressive. He seemed more afraid of the men in the room than they were of him, although he maintained a convincing facade of bravado.
"I can't take that chance," said Iphicles. "I have people to protect." He threw the warrior a murderous look. "I want to know where the rest of his tribe is. And I'm going to find out, if I have to beat it out of him!"
Hercules planted himself in front of the warrior. "Don't you dare!" he said angrily. "If you do that, you're more of a 'savage' than he is!"
"Don't tell me how to do my job!" Iphicles roared.
"Torturing him won't get you anywhere," said Hercules. "Even if he understood you, do you think he'd tell you anything?" He gave his brother a hard, piercing look. Iphicles stood fuming, then a fraction of his anger seemed to drain out of him. He strictly maintained a policy of never torturing prisoners in his keeping, even the most odious criminals. He tried miscreants fairly, and sentenced them quickly. Iphicles never made a public spectacle of executions. Many found his practices odd, but many more respected his sense of humanity. He ruled with respect, not fear.
Hercules hated the thought of that ever changing.
"Okay," said the king, giving his brother an expectant look. "You tell me what we should do, then."
Hercules exhaled. "We can start by asking him his name."
"We can't understand him. How're we supposed to do that?"
Hercules approached the young warrior, being sure to keep his arms down in a non-threatening position. He studied the painted face, looking directly into the dark eyes. He saw more fear than anything else. The warrior might not understand the Corinthian dialect, but he could certainly read hostility in the way Iphicles gestured and spoke. Although none of the four men wore any mark of status, the warrior had clearly identified the king, and his eyes followed Iphicles unerringly.
The young man looked up at Hercules with trepidation, seeming unsure what to expect. Finally, Hercules patted a hand on his own chest.
"Hercules," he said slowly.
The Horde warrior stared at him distrustfully. Hercules repeated the gesture and said his name again, even more slowly. Then he tapped the warrior's chest and gave him an encouraging expression.
If the warrior understood what Hercules wanted, he gave no sign of it. His body remained rigid, his face expressionless, and he looked through Hercules as though he wasn't even there. Hercules felt a spasm of frustration. He had no clue in Tartarus how Horde warriors typically greeted one another, if they did at all. How was he supposed to communicate with this man when they couldn't do something as simple as exchanging names?
Mentally, Hercules reviewed everything Xena had told him about the Horde. He recalled her story of the warrior she'd captured for information. Hercules thought of Xena's comment that the prisoner had refused to fight her when given the opportunity. Illumination hit him at that moment.
"Iphicles, you try it," said Hercules.
"What?" responded his brother, startled.
"Tell him your name."
Hercules stepped aside. Iphicles approached the young man, and tapped his own chest. Speaking clearly, he said "Iphicles."
The warrior's demeanor changed immediately. He dropped his eyes and lowered his head in a clear posture of submission. He rapped his fist twice against his breastbone and made a guttural sound in his throat.
"What's that? What'd he say?" asked Iphicles, excited and confused.
"Do it again," said Hercules.
Iphicles repeated his own name. The warrior again struck his chest twice and spoke. Hercules listened more carefully this time.
"Brug?" asked Hercules. The Horde warrior didn't respond.
"Brug?" Iphicles repeated. The young man nodded once, keeping his eyes on the floor.
"I'll be," said Josephus.
"They must have some sort of strict hierarchy," speculated Hercules. "Xena told us that a warrior she captured refused to fight her, apparently because his status was too low. He recognized her as the chief warrior, the leader of her tribe. That's when he went and got his own chief, so Xena could fight him. This man won't talk to me, because I'm not the leader here. It must be a disrespect."
"How'd he figure out Iphicles is the leader?" asked Iolaus.
"Just by watching us," said Hercules. "Now, maybe we can find something out. Josephus, go get a map of the area, would you?" Josephus hurried out of the room.
"We need to tell him it's okay for him to answer my questions," said Hercules. "If he knows I'm your brother, maybe he'll talk to me, too."
"Brug," said Iphicles. The young warrior glanced up briefly.
Iphicles rested a hand on his brother's arm, then tapped his own chest, trying to indicate a bond between himself and Hercules. The warrior glanced back and forth between the two men. The brothers clearly saw a gleam of understanding in Brug's eyes. He'd recognized the tie of kinship. Now, he regarded Hercules with more deference.
Josephus returned with the map. Hercules took the scroll and unrolled it. The map delineated most of northern Corinth and southern Megarid, including the river, forest, and the Gulf of Corinth.
Iphicles got Brug's attention again. He gestured around the room with his hand, then pointed at the mark on the map indicating the location of the town and palace. Brug nodded once, to signal his understanding. Iphicles pointed at the young man with a questioning look. Brug regarded the map, then pointed to the water.
"You came here by water?" asked Hercules? "In a boat?"
The warrior seemed confused. He pointed to the far upper left-hand corner of the map, indicating the northwest. Then he drew a line down the western coastline. He tapped once at a point roughly off the west coast of Corinth. Brug shook his head and looked down at the floor.
"They must've left Macedonia by boat and come down the coast," Hercules guessed. "I'll bet they were shipwrecked. He's trying to tell us that all his men were killed. Brug must be the only survivor."
"Well, that's a happy accident for us," muttered Iphicles. Nobody argued with him.
Iolaus slapped a hand against his leg. "The hurricane," he said. "Their ship must've been lost in the storm."
About eight months earlier, a fierce hurricane had blown in off the ocean, pounding the Peloponnese. The damage had extended as far north as Thessaly, and as far east as Euboia. Any ship caught unawares had been doomed. The timing fit Brug's appearance, too. The young man looked like he'd been living in the woods for several months. Although most likely trained to survive in the wilderness, the Horde were by all accounts a clan-based society. Their strength depended on the sheer force of their masses. Individuals, isolated from the protection of the tribe, became far more vulnerable.
Iphicles gestured with his hands, sketching out a pantomime of a ship sailing on water, then sinking. Brug nodded once. He made swimming motions. He closed his eyes and made hard breathing noises. Then he pointed to the map again, to the western edge of the Phlegran forest. He pantomimed looking up, around himself, as if at trees.
"He's been living in the forest," said Hercules. "I wonder if he's seen the man we're after."
"Brug," said Iphicles. He pointed to the forest, then to the warrior. Then he drew his finger across his throat in a slicing gesture. The warrior started with fear, then dropped his head, as if in resignation.
Iolaus laughed briefly. "He thinks you're going to take him back to the woods and kill him."
"No, no!" Iphicles caught Brug's attention and shook his head, making an apologetic expression. He stepped back a bit, and pantomimed swinging an ax. He then took on the role of the victim, with a surprisingly good rendition of a man whose head has just been lopped off. He then looked questioningly at the Horde warrior, and pointed to the forest on the map.
Even through the coating of paint, the four men could see the color drain from Brug's face. Without warning, the young man dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor, folding his hands over the back of his head in the most bizarre posture of obeisance Hercules had ever seen. The four men stared at each other with incredulity.
"He's seen something," said Josephus.
"Maybe it's a giant, or a Cyclops," suggested Iolaus.
"The footprint was too small for a giant or a Cyclops," said Hercules. He watched as Iphicles gently pulled Brug back to his feet.
"What have you seen?" asked Hercules, then he sighed. If only they shared even a few words in common.
Iphicles pointed at Brug, pointed at the map, gestured to his own head, then gave the warrior a questioning look.
The Horde warrior seemed highly frightened. Finally, he gestured to his own head, then made a motion suggesting somebody setting something on the ground. He repeated the gesture several times, but seemed to indicate a number of objects being piled up, one atop the other.
"A pile of heads?" Hercules finally understood. He looked at Brug and nodded vigorously, to communicate his comprehension. Brug took one step to the side and began to repeat the pantomime, again indicating the act of creating a pile on the ground.
"More than one pile of heads?" Hercules felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Brug gestured again and again, his motions indicating many such piles.
Hercules pointed to the forest on the map again, to the place where the river originated in the marshes. "There?" he said. He pointed to Brug's imaginary piles of heads, then back to the same spot on the map, and gave the young man a questioning look.
Brug nodded once.
"He's seen it," said Iphicles. "He knows where the heads are."
Hercules swung an imaginary ax, pointed to the forest, then looked at Brug.
The young warrior gestured to Hercules, holding his hands up in the air. The four men realized Brug must be trying to tell them what the killer looked like-- from his gesticulations, a man bigger than Hercules. Brug held his arms out at the height of his shoulders, his hands seeming to indicate a man with a large build. He then engaged in a remarkably good pantomime. He took a few steps, walking with a peculiar gait, almost as if one leg had suddenly grown longer than the other. He hunched over, which made his arms seem rather long. His face lost its look of intelligence, and suddenly took on an expression of vacant, mean stupidity. Brug pointed to his own eyes, then rolled them slightly toward his nose, suggesting a cross-eyed gaze.
Hercules found the performance uncanny and creepy. He had the distinct impression of a hulking brute of a man, perhaps injured or deformed. Keeping in character, Brug pantomimed swinging an ax. Iolaus and Josephus shuddered visibly.
Hercules pointed to Brug, pointed to himself, then to the forest on the map. He made a walking gesture that he hoped communicated a desire for Brug to show him the place in the forest where the killer had hidden the skulls.
Brug shook his head, looking fearful. He once again took on the demeanor of the hunch-backed man. He pretended to swing an ax. He reached down, as if picking up the severed head, pretended to carry it, then set it down. Again, he suggested the piling up of many heads. Then he dropped to his knees and again made the same gesture of obeisance, head to the floor, hands covering his head, as if in supplication. Then Brug stood, eyes pleading mutely with Hercules. He shook his head.
"I don't get it," said Iolaus.
"He's frightened," said Hercules. "Maybe he thinks we should beg the killer for mercy? I don't know."
The Horde warrior could tell them no more. Wearily, Josephus rolled up the map. Iphicles called for a pair of guards to escort the warrior back to his prison-room.
*****
Hercules didn't often dream, usually exhausted by the time he gave into the need for slumber. Most nights he slept deeply and without dreams.
But now he experienced a surreal nightmare. He dreamed of being a soldier in Xena's army as they tried to get their men out of a ravine. He couldn't see the Horde, but he could hear their savage howling far below, and the horrible screams of his comrades. Xena yelled at him, giving him an order, but Hercules couldn't understand her. What did she want him to do?
Hercules jerked into wakefulness. Outside his window, gray dawn painted the sky. An instant later, he heard a blood-curdling screech. He knew that voice. Falafel!
*****
5.
Hercules took his feet without feeling himself move. Barefoot and shirtless, he tore out of the room, through the corridor, and yanked open a door leading to the outside. He ran around the corner of the palace as fast as his legs would carry him. To his immense relief, he saw Falafel bounding across the meadow toward the palace, an expression of terror on his face, but evidently unharmed.
"Hercules! Oh, Hercules! That monster!"
"Falafel!" he shouted. "What were you doing out here at this hour, by yourself?"
"I know, I know!" the cook said, agitated, wiping sweat from his brow with shaky hands. "But I wanted to find blackberries to serve with breakfast-- I know how much the lady likes them-- and her little boy-- You must pick them while they're ripe--"
"I think Rena would understand," said Hercules, trying to calm his pounding heart. "I'm sure she'd rather not see you get killed. What happened? Did you see anything?"
"A monster of a man," Falafel gasped. "I was picking berries, and I heard something behind me. I turned around, and there was this brute--" The cook wiped his face again. "He missed me by a cat's whisker, and fell into the briars. I ran--"
"Did you see what he looked like?"
"Oh, yes!" said Falafel, eyes wide. "A huge man, bigger than you, hunched over like this--" Falafel demonstrated-- "drooling-- his eyes-- he had strange eyes--"
"Was he cross-eyed?" interrupted Hercules.
"Yes-- yes-- but there was something else--"
This must be the man Brug had seen. The killer would be on his way back to the swamp at this instant. With no time to lose, Hercules bolted back into the palace, ignoring Iphicles, Iolaus, and Rena, who had come downstairs to investigate the disturbance.
Hercules drew on his boots and shirt. "Get Brug," he said to Iphicles. "I need him to come with me. Order him if you have to. He'll listen to you."
While Iphicles fetched the young warrior, Rena scouted up bread, cheese, and a water skin for the two men. "Good luck," she said, giving him a kiss. "Come back to us in one piece."
"Herk, are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" said Iolaus.
"No. It'll be faster with just the two of us. You stay here. Get everyone in town into the palace. Have Iphicles post a guard. Nobody should leave here until I get back."
Iphicles returned to the kitchen with Brug, who seemed frightened, but calmly accepting of his whatever fate might befall him on the journey.
"You sure you trust him?" asked Iphicles.
"I have to," Hercules responded.
Hercules nodded to his brother and friends on his way out, but he didn't say good-bye, because he had every intention of returning.
*****
Hercules went first to the thorny blackberry patch where Falafel had almost met his demise. He could see where the murderer had apparently gone staggering into the briars. Hercules guessed that the killer might be clumsy and uncoordinated.
They found the trail easily. The big man had been in a hurry, and had made no effort to cover his tracks. Hercules struck out at a rapid pace, pleased that Brug kept up with him, almost effortlessly. The two men ate their meal of bread and cheese as they walked.
Before noon, they'd reached the edge of the swamp. Here, the killer had begun to take more care with his trail. Brug, however, followed the subtle marks with no difficulty.
Hercules concentrated, senses fully alert. Once back in his lair, the killer would have an advantage over the men who pursued him. Hercules proceeded with caution. Luckily, Brug was right at home in this marshy woodland and navigated his way with ease.
Finally, when they'd almost reached the thickest part of the swamp, Brug stopped. He gestured to Hercules with his hands. He seemed to be making reference to the trail they followed. It looked to Hercules like he wanted to deviate from that trail, and take a roundabout route to where the killer had his hideout. Hercules nodded.
Brug began pushing through the undergrowth with extreme caution. Hercules admired the young man's uncanny skills of tracking and orientation. He knew exactly where he went and what he did. No wonder he'd been able to survive in the forest for so long.
They reached a point where Brug stopped and just stood, as if contemplating what to do next. Hercules sensed that they must be very close to the killer's lair, and that the Horde warrior assessed how to make the final approach.
Hercules paused. His nose twitched, as an almost imperceptible odor sent a warning signal along his olfactory nerve. When Hercules inhaled through his mouth, the scent coated his tongue. He knew that the faint smell meant the source of the odor must be downwind of the prevailing air current. The killer would therefore be able to smell Hercules and Brug better than they could smell him.
Slowly, Hercules turned his head. Brug saw his posture and expression. The warrior froze, except for his eyes, which scanned the foliage around them. Hercules noticed the absolute quiet of the forest at that moment-- the birds and insects had fallen deathly still. Hercules listened for sounds of breathing, for branches rustling, for anything that might give him a clue as to where in the jungle the killer hid. Cautiously, he turned his gaze in the direction where the air stream flowed.
At that moment, a shadow loomed out of the vegetation behind Brug. Hercules bellowed, an inarticulate noise of warning. The young Horde warrior leapt forward just fast enough to escape the ax that swung in a blurry silver arc. But the momentum of the strike carried the murderer out of hiding with an awkward crash.
For one instant, Hercules stood staring at the killer, one of the most hideously ugly brutes he'd ever set eyes upon. Then he charged forward, to keep Brug away from the path of that deadly ax. The weapon whistled through the air overhead as Hercules ducked. The next time the killer struck out, Hercules was ready. He grabbed the ax by its handle. He stood locked in a struggle with the killer, astounded by the man's strength.
Despite his power, the murderer clearly had been afflicted with multiple birth defects. Each eye was a different color-- the left so pale blue it was almost white, and the right a muddy green, both irises rolling toward his nose. His eyebrows grew together in the middle. His mouth didn't seem quite able to close all the way, and a stream of saliva dribbled down his chin. His hair was long, stringy, and black, matted with brambles, and so filthy it looked never to have been washed or combed. A deformity of the spine caused his hunch, which gave his thick arms a long, ape-like appearance. If he'd been able to stand fully upright, the killer would have approached seven feet tall.
Hercules kicked out, catching the man in the gut. The man staggered backward, but would not relinquish his hold on the ax. Then Brug got behind the killer, and slammed him over the head with a large stick. Horrified, Hercules watched as the murderer kicked Brug savagely, sending the young warrior into a tree trunk at a fearsome velocity. Hercules heard bones crack.
Concern for his young comrade put a new strength into Hercules. With a ferocious yank, he pulled the killer towards himself, then abruptly let go. The man staggered and fell to the ground. He didn't release the ax, but his deformities made it difficult for him to get upright again. Normally, Hercules would never take advantage of an adversary in this manner, but if he didn't immobilize the killer soon, he'd be unable to tend Brug's injuries. Hercules jumped forward onto the killer's right arm, with every ounce of his power. Bone crunched beneath his feet. The killer made a bestial growling noise. In one dim corner of his mind, Hercules registered that he'd yet to hear this hulking madman utter a single word.
Hercules grabbed for the ax. His hands closed around the wooden shaft at the same instant the killer's left arm grabbed one of his legs. Hercules felt himself toppling to the ground. He twisted around, kicking his rival in the chest with his free leg, but it felt like kicking a stone wall. He kicked again, aiming for the throat and face. The madman had rolled up to his knees, and tried to wrestle Hercules and pin him down. If that happened, Hercules knew he'd be dead. He swung out with the ax, using the wooden handle to strike the killer's head. The blow forced the brute to release his grip on Hercules' leg. Hercules struggled to his feet, only to have the killer grab for the ax handle again.
Hercules used his right leg to deliver a roundhouse kick to the brute's temple. The killer lost his grip on the ax and fell back into the mud. Despite having taken blows in the head powerful enough to render an ordinary man unconscious for several hours, the brute hauled himself back up into a crouch. Hercules brought the ax handle down again, but the killer lunged forward, and instead of striking the top of his head, Hercules caught the man squarely on the back of his neck. He heard a bright snapping noise, and the madman dropped onto the wet ground for the last time. He lay utterly still.
*****
6.
It took a moment for Hercules to realize he'd killed the man. Stunned, he reached over and grabbed an arm. The limb lay utterly flaccid in his hands, the heavy stillness of death. Hercules dropped the arm and hurried over to Brug.
The warrior's body had the same motionlessness about it, and Hercules knew before he even felt for a pulse that Brug was dead. The impact from striking the tree trunk had broken his neck. Many would find it a poetic irony that Hercules had killed the murderer by breaking his neck, although inadvertently. Hercules found it neither poetic nor ironic; only sordid. He silently grieved the passing of the young warrior who had lived through a calamity and survived in a hostile forest, only to die at the hands of a deranged brute.
Gradually, the normal sounds of the swamp resumed. Hercules knew he should take Brug's body and be gone. But one question remained: the whereabouts of the heads that the killer had taken.
Reluctantly, Hercules straightened up and looked around himself. He located the place from which the madman had leaped. Using that spot to orient himself, he could probably find the killer's lair quickly.
Before he started, Hercules went and rolled over the brute's body. The man had been very tall and very powerful-- easily as strong as Hercules himself. But Hercules found it almost impossible to reconcile this physical prowess with such severe deformities. Normally, people who had been born with problems in their bones or wasting diseases of the muscles were small and weak. For the first time, Hercules took a good look at the man's face. He found the features vaguely familiar. He frowned. And he'd seen these kinds of birth defects somewhere else-- where?
Leaving the bodies, Hercules headed into the thick tangle of vines and leaves, sloshing through mud and water. Without much difficulty, he found the trail indicating where the killer had passed. The ground rose slightly, and the water receded. Hercules found himself on an island of sorts, an area of higher ground within the dense wetlands. He located a well-used path and followed it, despite the foreboding in his heart. Then he paused. He heard a sound-- the raucous cawing of crows.
At last, Hercules broke through the trees and out into a large clearing. For a moment, his head reeled with disbelief. Despite all the atrocities he'd witnessed in his lifetime, nothing he'd ever seen could have prepared him for this moment.
In the clearing, the killer had been constructing a house of human skulls. Stunned, Hercules paced the outer perimeter of the building. The madman must have been at his task for years, because the bones on the bottom layers had grown yellow with age; the skulls on the higher levels were still pale.
Swallowing back nausea, Hercules climbed up a shallow flight of steps, treading human bone at each pace. He now saw the object behind Brug's pantomime. The warrior had been trying to describe the pillars of skulls that rose up from the foundation. Some kind of mortar glued the bones together. Despite the pillars, Hercules saw no attempt at walls, or a roof. Maybe the madman just hadn't gotten around to those. Over on one side of the grisly structure, Hercules saw a macabre clothesline with half a dozen human heads suspended by their hair. A flock of crows swarmed around the line, the birds fighting one another for positions on the heads. The carrion-eaters gradually stripped the skulls of flesh.
Hercules forced his attention back to the building, wondering if that brute had intended to actually live in this place if he'd ever completed the job. His mind could barely fathom the depths of madness that had driven the man to undertake this ghastly occupation. Hercules reached the far side of the foundation, and came across an object that had been half-hidden by the pillars.
The killer had constructed a knee-high cube by gluing dozens of skulls together. In the center of the lumpy surface, a crow lay on its back, neck broken, the body cavity gutted. Flies buzzed over the carcass. Hercules waved away the insects. The bird had been killed that morning. Hercules recognized the unmistakable signs of a ritual slaying. At last, he understood Brug's strange gestures of obeisance.
The crude cube of skulls was an altar. This whole place was not a house; it was a temple.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Hercules turned around. Behind him, Ares gazed about the temple with an expression of supreme pleasure. Hercules could barely find words to express his contempt at this atrocity.
"Was that lunatic one of your more zealous followers?" Hercules didn't hide the sarcasm in his voice.
"Oh, Kyknos was more than my follower." Ares gave his brother a smoldering glare of hatred. "He was my son."
Hercules first reacted with disbelief. Having a god for a parent typically provided an advantage. In addition to his strength and powerful senses, Hercules enjoyed a remarkably resilient body-- he healed quickly from wounds, and he'd never had a sick day in his life. He could not understand how Kyknos could possibly have been born with such extensive deformities if Ares had been his father. Then it occurred to him where he'd seen similar birth defects: the valley of the River Aoos, high in the Pindos Mountains, whose remote and isolated location led to an inevitable amount of inbreeding amongst its people. Intermarriage in communities of close kin almost always led to problems with offspring.
"What happened?" asked Hercules coldly. "Didn't your breeding experiment work out the way you planned?"
Ares shrugged indifferently. He strolled about the temple, admiring the pillars of bone. "An unfortunate mistake." The god approached Hercules and stood before him. "But one of these days, I'll have a son who's your equal, brother. On that day, I'll dig your grave."
"If Kyknos is the best you can do, you'll be waiting a long time," said Hercules. "You know perfectly well that incest among mortals is taboo, because it results in deformed offspring. If you keep lying with your own daughters, and their daughters, and their daughters, you won't get that perfect killing machine you're looking for. You'll get a crippled madman." Hercules couldn't keep the revulsion off his face.
Ares made a snorting noise of laughter. "I can't understand you," he said, his voice casual, almost jovial, as if they discussed nothing more important than the weather. He'd resumed his restless pacing. "Here you are, powerful, and not even all that bad-looking. You could have any woman you wanted. And you live a life that makes a Hestian look depraved."
"What's the alternative?" asked Hercules. "Act like you? Take any woman I please, and leave scores of fatherless children in my wake?"
"There you go, moralizing again," said Ares, shaking his head in mock surprise. He approached Hercules another time. "You haven't lived," he said, "until you've lain with a woman whose flesh is of your own making. The experience is..." Ares gestured with his arms, as if looking for the right expression, although Hercules knew full well the god had every word rehearsed. "...Exquisite," he finally concluded.
"And where does this thing fit in with your plans to create the perfect demi-god?" asked Hercules, indicating the temple. "Did you tell Kyknos to do this?"
"Not at all." Ares rumbled with laughter. "He did it on his own. He knew I hated him, and did this to win my approval. That pathetic maggot!" Hercules felt his dull throb of anger beginning to blossom into a full-scale rage. "Ah, well. I never had very high hopes for that oaf. But he did better than I ever expected. What could be more wonderful?" asked Ares, stalking the temple floor. "An entire temple built of human skulls, for the glory of Ares!" The god roared with ecstatic laughter. Then he sobered. "Too bad he never got to finish it. I was looking forward to having your head on top as a decoration." Ares gave his appalled brother another amused look. "You, maybe your little buddy..." Ares paused. "Or maybe that idiot brother of yours."
The mention of his friends and family felt like an icicle through Hercules, driving right into his heart. He couldn't bring the poor victims of Kyknos back to life, but he could at least pull the rug out from under Ares and bring the smug bastard down a peg or two.
"Not on your life," he said, then kicked out savagely at the base of the nearest pillar. His foot connected with the most frail bone, the old skulls at the bottom. The pillar cracked and shattered to the floor of the temple. Broken chips of bone and pieces of mortar flew everywhere.
Ares gave him an enraged look. Hercules didn't pause: he went to the next pillar and gave it a kick. He'd gone to the third pillar before Ares finally moved, leaping at his brother with an angry growl. Hercules jumped out of the way, calculating his movements precisely, so that instead of tackling his brother, Ares crashed into the pillar and knocked it down.
The war god became more infuriated by the moment. Hercules knew that he only needed to get Ares to the boiling point, and the god would mindlessly destroy his own temple. Hercules jumped before another pillar. Ares flew through the air in a somersault, but Hercules dodged him at the last moment, and Ares knocked down the pillar.
By now, broken bones and mortar littered the temple floor. Hercules began to laugh, thinking of the years and years it had taken Kyknos to build this thing, and the fact that Ares would wreck the entire monument in just moments. The sound of his brother's laughter was the last straw. Ares hit the point of complete and utter wrath. He chased Hercules around the temple, always just missing his brother, knocking down pillar after pillar. Ares knew perfectly well what Hercules intended, but he was completely powerless to stop himself.
Hercules saw the god pull back his right arm, hand glowing red. He vaulted behind the altar, dropped onto the ground, and covered his head. A moment later, the altar exploded in a billion fragments. Ares bellowed with frustration, the sound echoing off the trees.
Hercules dodged for the line of rotting heads. He yanked down the rope, swung the heads around like some grisly bola, then threw the whole thing straight at Ares. One of the decomposing skulls hit the god squarely in the face. Spewing invective, Ares wiped the rotting flesh and maggots from his beard and clothes. Hercules laughed and laughed. He'd never seen Ares quite this furious, and he found the god's reaction immensely funny.
Nothing remained of the temple now but its foundation. Ares finally caught up with Hercules, and the two fought like tigers, kicking, punching, and throwing each other across the clearing. Hercules thought that if the god became any more angry, he'd burst apart at the seams. Ares pulled his sword and swung savagely at Hercules, but his brother avoided the blade with little difficulty. Hercules found himself fighting the god with a kind of cold-blooded pleasure, holding back nothing. He knew he couldn't really inflict damage on Ares, but he felt immensely satisfied to not only have destroyed the god's temple, but also to have beaten the stuffing out of him in the process.
Hercules dodged the swinging sword, and spun about, kicking as he turned. He caught Ares in the elbow, knocking the sword to the ground. Before Ares could grab the weapon back, Hercules spun around, the momentum carrying his next kick right into his brother's gut. Ares landed on his back, then found himself looking up at his own sword blade, pointed straight at his heart.
Instead of trying to grab away the weapon, Ares began laughing. He pulled open the folds of his tunic.
"Go on, do it," he taunted. "Kill your own brother in cold blood." Ares convulsed with laughter. "Go on, I dare you!"
"Don't push me!" snarled Hercules.
Ares chuckled. "Do you expect me to believe you, you spineless coward?" He folded his arms under his head, as if lying out to enjoy the sun. "Go ahead and kill me. Take my sword. Become the next god of war, and be responsible for the deaths of thousands of people. They'll really call you a hero then, won't they?"
Disgusted, Hercules stepped back from Ares and tossed the sword into the bushes.
The god sprang up, catching Hercules about the legs, and knocking him to the ground. Hercules smashed his fist into the side of his brother's head, forcing Ares to release his grip for an instant, then kicked up with both legs. Ares went flying, but tucked himself into a somersault and landed on both feet. He prepared to tackle Hercules once again, but a tremendous bolt of lighting suddenly streaked down out of the sky, slamming into the earth between the two brothers. Hercules, who had just gained his feet again, flew backward with the force of the impact. Likewise, Ares landed on his backside in an undignified heap.
With a snarl of frustration, Ares tried to attack his brother again, but a second bolt of lightning prevented him.
When the searing afterimages cleared from his eyes, Hercules blinked and realized that Zeus had materialized in the clearing.
"Enough!" growled the older god.
Zeus turned first to Ares, who had retrieved his sword from the undergrowth. "You monster," he said.
"That's right," said Ares, giving his father a filthy, hateful expression. "The monster you created." Ares roared with laughter and vanished in a glimmer of silver light.
Hercules exhaled. He watched as Zeus regarded the decimated temple with a kind of dispassionate repugnance. He sometimes found it impossible to believe himself related to Zeus, let alone Ares.
"You could have killed him, you know," said Zeus. "The penalty doesn't apply to you."
"But the protection does. Is that what you want? Is that why the no-kill rule protects me, but I'm not subject to the punishment?" Hercules shook his head, folding his arms on his chest. "If you hate Ares badly enough to want him dead, kill him yourself."
Zeus gave his son a blank look. "After all he's done to you? I should think you'd want to rid the world of such evil."
"I won't be your assassin," said Hercules. "If you and the other gods think he's evil, deal with him yourself. Don't expect me to do it for you." And he turned and stalked out of the clearing.
*****
Hercules found Brug's body and slung the weight up onto his shoulders. Without even looking at the remains of Kyknos-- Ares could deal with the carcass, or just leave it to rot-- Hercules headed back in the direction of the palace.
A moment later, he heard a muffled explosion, and felt the ground shake. Zeus had evidently destroyed what remained of the gruesome temple.
Hercules trudged out of the swamp, grateful when the marshy lands retreated behind him and he once again trod upon firm, dry ground. In the past few days of searching the forest, he'd become quite familiar with the terrain. He located a small, deep ravine that could serve as a grave for Brug. Hercules knocked dirt and debris down to cover the young man's body, feeling sadness, anger, and frustration. He'd hoped to build more trust with the warrior, learn something of the man's language, and develop an understanding of the faceless, menacing savages. Hercules feared that any future clashes between the Horde and the Hellenic people would result in a bloodbath. Now he'd lost his chance to perhaps thwart the loss of life on both sides.
On his long walk back to the palace, Hercules mulled over his terse exchange with Zeus. The phrase all he's done to you seemed to ring in his mind. He stopped short, experiencing a sudden astonishment, then slowly began walking again.
He knew without a doubt that Zeus must have specifically referred to Serena. Perhaps the god had felt some sense of guilt for not having restored his son's mate back to life, although he could have done so quite easily. Then later, to settle his own conscience, Zeus had allowed the Cronus Stone to fall into the hands of Autolycus. Perhaps he'd even planted in the thief's mind the idea of traveling back in time to rob Qualus, which had inadvertently allowed Hercules to save Serena from Ares.
What a sop, thought Hercules angrily. Instead of openly confronting Ares for his treachery, and for the crime he'd committed against Hercules and Serena, Zeus had taken a passive, indirect route to settle the conundrum. Hercules still had to do the dirty work himself. And Zeus probably imagined he was granting his son a great boon, and expected Hercules would be so grateful for the favor that he'd be willing to commit fratricide.
Hercules had long suspected that Zeus left the "no kill" rule open-ended deliberately, hoping that one day Hercules would kill Ares. Now, Zeus had all but admitted this openly. Hercules felt tired and dejected, although he supposed the callow insensitivity of the gods ought not to surprise him. He sometimes hated the knowledge that the whole wretched lot of them were his relatives. Some family.
The trees began to thin out as Hercules approached the town. His spirits lifted. No matter what the gods did, he still had his friends and his mortal family-- his real family. And right now, a hot fire, a warm meal, dry clothes, and an hour playing with his nephew sounded just about perfect.
The End.
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