Chapter 21 #2
After another hour of riding, the forests on either side of the road became dense again.
With no views of the surrounding countryside to distract her, the ache in Danae’s thighs became so uncomfortable, she had to shift every few moments.
Rearranging herself, she accidentally kicked the bag she’d attached to the saddle.
Worried about losing the prophecy stone, she leaned over to make sure it was secure.
As she straightened up, an object whistled past her head. A heartbeat later, pain spiked through her ear and something warm trickled down her neck.
She barely had time to register what had happened before Heracles twisted in his saddle and spun a dagger into the branches of a tree on the opposite side of the path. There was a wet thud, a moan, then a man tumbled from the branches, the blade wedged in his throat.
Danae stared at the body, her breathing shallow. She’d half expected to see the blue cloak of an Athenian guard, but the man bleeding out in front of her was dressed in a humble tunic with a dark strip of cloth wound around his face.
She didn’t have long to recover from the shock. Men surged from between the trees on either side, all dressed similarly with their faces obscured, clutching an eclectic assortment of weapons.
Telamon unsheathed his sword and Atalanta drew her bow, an arrow poised at her cheek in the space of a heartbeat. They worked in harmony, Telamon slashing and stabbing the nearest attackers, while Atalanta picked off the ones lurking in the foliage. The ground around their horses soon turned red.
Danae scrabbled around for her knife, while Hylas pulled their horse away from a man wielding a sickle.
Heracles threw his reins to Dolos and slipped from the saddle.
Unarmed, he moved amongst their attackers, crushing their weapons as though they were blades of grass.
Danae gaped as he grabbed a sword in his fist, the metal crumpling under his grip, while he punched the man who held it.
With a sickening crack, the man sank to the ground, his head lolling from a broken neck.
The others faltered, staring at Heracles in slack-jawed horror.
Hesitating was a mistake.
The hero darted forward with the speed of someone half his size.
There was a pop as he wrenched a man’s arm from its socket, while at the same time shattering another’s pelvis with a kick.
While Danae clung to Hylas, uselessly waving her knife, Heracles felled a dozen men in moments.
Two dropped their weapons and turned to run, but the hero grabbed each of their heads and smashed them together, showering the path in fragments of skull and brains.
Suddenly, the sky seemed to slide forward as Danae was pulled off the horse. An attacker had a fistful of her cloak and was dragging her along the path. Winded, she tried to swing her blade in front of her, but the man grabbed her arm, forcing her knife down toward her chest.
Then Hylas was soaring through the air above them. He must have leaped from the saddle, drawing his dagger at the same time. He landed on his feet, his blade sinking into the back of Danae’s attacker. Blood dribbled from the man’s mouth and he toppled over, dead before he hit the path.
She propped herself onto her elbows. Bodies littered the ground around her. After what Heracles had done, most of them barely looked human.
Atalanta and Telamon brought their horses around. Neither of them had even broken a sweat. Hylas held out a hand and lifted Danae to her feet. She was glad he didn’t let go straight away. Without his arm, she didn’t know if she would have remained upright.
“Any injuries?” called Dolos as he trotted over with Heracles’s horse in tow. The healer looked down at Danae. “Are you all right, Daeira?”
“Fine,” she said, wiping the blood from the front of her dress. “Who were they?”
“Bandits,” said Heracles as he climbed back onto his steed.
“People aren’t as respectful of your kind in these parts,” said Telamon to Danae. “Coin is coin no matter how holy the purse.”
“It’s the temple tithes,” said Hylas. “People are starving and desperate.”
“Well, I had fun,” said Heracles. “Shall we?”
Hylas lifted Danae back onto their horse, then remounted himself. Heracles trotted out in front of the pack and they set off, leaving the dead bandits strewn behind them.
The hero donned his lion hide once more, lifting the roaring head over his tousled curls. As he turned his back to her, Danae’s eyes traced the breadth of his shoulders, the contours of his muscular arms as he clenched the reins. He was so magnificent part of her couldn’t believe he was real.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Daeira?”
Her gaze snapped up. Heracles was looking over his shoulder, his cerulean eyes clouded with concern.
She must have been staring. Searching for a distraction she glanced back at the slain bandits. “Shouldn’t we bury them?”
Amusement hooked the corners of Heracles’s mouth. “We’d still be digging graves back in Erymanthia if we buried everyone we killed in a fight.” He turned back to look at the path ahead.
All their souls, lost forever on the banks of the Styx. She tried not to think about it.
“It sounds callous,” said Hylas. “But you’ll get used to it.”
Danae swallowed. She hoped not.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked.
“My father. He was a soldier.”
“What does he do now?”
Hylas let out a soft sigh. “He died. There was a war, like there always is. My mother joined the Missing when I was young, so when my father didn’t come back, my aunt and uncle took me in. They needed another pair of hands on the farm, so...” He shrugged.
She thought of Arius, the smell of his head and the sound of his robust little laugh.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just life. Worse things have happened to many. And look where I am now.”
Danae smiled. “My brothers would be so envious. When we were little, Calix insisted he was going to be a hero when he was grown. He used to make Santos dress up in a heap of Pa’s old fishing nets and pretend...” She stopped herself.
Hylas reminded her of the boys she’d grown up with. Open, honest, sun-ripened fisherman’s sons. But he was a stranger, and she didn’t know if she could trust him.
“Have you seen them, your family, since you became a seer?”
“No. Once we take the sacred oath we can’t go back.” It was true, or it would have been if she really was a seer. Danae hoped with all her soul that it would not be the same for her.
The road sprouted branches, feeding the towns and villages that lay nestled in the nooks of hills and swathes of woodland.
The landscape became increasingly wild. Great chalky mountains reared into the sky, populated by herds of mountain goats.
The rougher the terrain and further from civilization they traveled, the more Heracles relaxed, until the thundercloud that had hung over him as they passed Thebes dissipated.
As the horses trotted through a wild grove of poplar trees, the hero shouted back, “Telamon, tell us a joke.”
There were grumbles from the rest of the group.
“For the love of the gods—”
“—don’t encourage him—”
“—I’d rather listen to Hylas sing.”
Hylas delved into his saddle pouch and threw a nut at Atalanta.
Unperturbed, Telamon cleared his throat. “Did you hear the one about the soldier from Sparta? A fellow says to him, ‘Lend me your sword as far as Phrygia,’ and the Spartan says, ‘I haven’t got one that long, but I’ve got something else that is.’”
There was a collective groan. Heracles alone let out a deep chuckle.
“Your jokes are terrible,” called Atalanta.
“Like you could do any better.”
The warrior arched an eyebrow. “A widow is standing by her husband’s grave. A woman approaches and says, ‘Who is it that rests in peace?’ The widow says, ‘Me, now he’s dead.’”
Danae laughed, a genuine mirth that rumbled from her gut and shook her shoulders. Atalanta glanced back, a flicker of surprise briefly softening her brow.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Heracles led them off the road altogether, urging the horses into a gallop across an expanse of dry, shrub-peppered earth.
He seemed to know the lay of this land like the creases of his palm.
Clouds rolled in from the west, absorbing the light from the sinking sun.
By the dying rays, Danae could just make out a crop of dwellings in the distance, nestled in the lower ledges of a small mountain.
She felt disorientated as they joined the rocky path that snaked up toward the village, lost in a sea of earth and stone. She wondered how she would ever find her way back to Naxos. She banished the thought as quickly as it came; she had a long way to go before she could think of returning home.
The mud-brick huts of the little village were painted white, reflecting the last of the sun.
As they approached the first clutch of dwellings, people emerged from their doorways.
Children in homespun tunics peered out between their parents’ legs.
From their expressions, it didn’t look like they were used to visitors.
The group carried on up the mountain path until they reached the center of the village.
A small stone well was sunk into a patch of relatively level ground, and a few shops were scattered between the ramshackle dwellings.
Danae recognized a blacksmith’s workbench outside one and a domed brick stove outside another that she assumed was the village kapeleion.
A couple of men were sitting outside drinking. They eyed the newcomers with suspicion.
The group dismounted and followed Heracles’s lead as he tied his horse to a post beside the kapeleion. An elderly man with a full gray beard and a rounded back brushed aside the faded curtain that hung over the doorway.
“Good to see you again, Dru,” said Heracles.
“Ah! I wondered if you’d ever come through these parts again.” Dru’s voice was surprisingly hearty.
“May the Twelve see you and know you.”