Chapter 2 A Familiar Song
Danae hurled her life-threads into the air and shot a blast of wind at the harpies, sending one tumbling into the trees on the far side of the river, while the other dodged her torrent of air, tucking its leathery wings into its sides and streaking towards her like a javelin.
The creature expelled a blood-chilling shriek as they collided, its taloned feet raking Danae’s thighs.
Pain stabbed through her legs, but she remained upright and with another surge of power threw the harpy from her, sending it crashing into a nearby tree trunk.
Hylas brayed triumphantly and emerged from the forest to kick the harpy in its scaly chest.
‘Hylas, stay back!’ Danae staggered forwards, her legs screaming. She could not risk the horse being injured. She could mend herself by consuming the life-threads of another living thing, but she could not heal others.
She leapt on the fallen harpy before it had a chance to rise as Hylas disappeared back into the trees.
Its jagged teeth were stained with blood, its yellow eyes bright with fury.
Danae pulled the knife from her belt and plunged it deep into the creature’s shattered chest. As its wings stopped flailing, she placed her hands either side of the blade and called the harpy’s fleeing life-threads towards her.
Yes, crooned the voice. Yes!
Suddenly, searing pain ripped through Danae’s shoulders and before she could drain the harpy’s life force she was dragged backwards.
The second harpy lifted her into the air, talons digging into the flesh below her collarbones.
She gasped, barely able to draw breath as the harpy carried her higher and higher.
Haphazardly, she hurled blasts of air upwards, but none found their target.
Pain beat through her like a battle drum. She was running out of strength, the river beneath her an ever-narrowing vein of shimmering water.
The river.
Danae gathered her life-threads and channelled them downwards in a glowing rope that cut through the air to plummet into the water. Then, with an agonizing roar of effort, she pulled them back towards her, bringing the current upwards as though it were erupting from a spring.
The churning column of water smacked into them both. The harpy’s talons retracted from Danae’s shoulders as they tumbled downwards like seeds blown through the sky, the harpy desperately flapping, one wing hanging limp.
Danae fell into the embrace of the river and hit the bed, lungs swelling with liquid as she tried to draw breath. She spluttered, unable to command her body after the shock of the fall.
Then she was jerked to the surface, Hylas dragging her tunic between his teeth.
The pain in her shoulders was so great she could barely raise her arms to heave herself onto the bank, but her need for breath forced her to push.
She hit the earth like a speared fish, retching and coughing until her lungs filled with sweet, life-giving air.
Rolling onto her back, she stared up and watched the lone harpy falteringly flying away across the sun-bleached sky.
Hylas let out a soft whinny and gently nudged Danae’s back.
She groaned and rolled onto her front. Forcing herself to her feet, she staggered towards the nearest tree and threw her arms around its trunk.
The moments where the tree fought to retain its threads felt the longest of her life, a century of agony stretched into each one.
But finally, the familiar surge of energy tingled through her limbs, and her flesh repaired itself.
She detached herself from the withered tree.
Her tunic was still shredded and bloodstained, but her body was whole once more.
Hylas stood watching her, a bloody stain across his snowy muzzle, his dark eyes tinged with sorrow.
Danae suddenly found she could not look at him. She scanned the ground and spotted the omphalos shard nestled in a scatter of leaves. Her heart skipped with relief, and she stooped to retrieve it, carefully wrapping it in the hem of her cloak.
‘We have to go.’ She stowed the stone away in Hylas’ saddle bag and attempted to lift it onto his back.
Hylas retreated, tossing his head.
‘I know, we both need rest, but we can’t stay here. The harpy that got away will report to its master. The Twelve will come for me …’ Her voice wavered. Despite her newly replenished life-threads, a wave of tiredness crashed over her. ‘Please, Hylas.’
The horse blinked, then took a step towards her.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly as she lifted the saddle over his wings and buckled it beneath his belly. Then she grasped a fistful of her sodden tunic and attempted to scrub the blood from his nose. Her efforts only spread the stain deeper across his white hair. She winced.
‘Sorry.’
Hylas nipped her ear, harder than usual, but still within the realms of affection. He lowered his right wing so Danae could hoist herself into the saddle. Once on his back she wound her fingers through his mane.
‘Take us to the Underworld.’
There was little in the way of shelter on Cape Taenarum, a hardy, rugged stretch of land situated on the tip of the southernmost peninsula of mainland Greece.
The sun soared high in the sky by the time Danae brought Hylas down on a rocky slope out of sight from the walled town. There were no beaches that she could spot, just the deep, dark sea on all sides, crashing against the cliffs.
She looked at Hylas, torn between her reluctance to leave him alone and exposed and the knowledge that she couldn’t walk into a strange town with a winged horse.
She retrieved her purse from his saddle bag, then unclasped her cloak, shivering as the wind lanced across her skin.
She set about securing the obsidian fabric to Hylas’ saddle and draped the material over his wings.
It was a poor disguise, but hopefully it would be enough to give a passerby the impression of an ordinary horse.
Hylas let out a weary nicker.
She smoothed his neck. ‘I won’t be long, I promise.’
Hylas blinked, his white lashes stark against his large mahogany eyes.
Her chest twinged as she turned away from him, but as she clambered over the tufted earth towards the town of Taenarum, her thoughts narrowed to her task: find food and discover the location of the entrance to the Underworld.
With no military fortifications, the stone wall around Taenarum was simple enough for a seasoned rock climber, like Danae, to scale.
Taenarum was famous for its green marble, and the town reverberated with the clanging of stonemasons’ chisels.
As she and Hylas had flown in, Danae spotted several mining sites dotted around the cape.
Despite the modest size of the town, the wealth this resource brought in was evident.
The buildings were all fashioned from polished stone, their facades pristine and the roads swept clean.
Many of the dwellings sported talismans above their doors crafted from the local stone: dolphins, miniature hammers, the all-seeing eye of the Twelve.
Most of the people walking the streets appeared healthy and well dressed, the women favouring long, layered peplos in rich colours.
It was a welcome relief that, even in the middle of the day, Taenarum was quieter than Athens at night, the pulse of the town more an amble than a sprint.
Once inside the walls, Danae clung to the shadows.
At the end of the fourth street, she spotted the wooden sign of a kapeleion.
She paused. Like in Athens, she would most likely find the information she needed from loose-lipped patrons deep in their cups.
However, she was already garnering unwanted attention in her bloodstained, talon-torn tunic and doubted she would be welcome in the establishment dressed as she was.
She veered east, up a sloping road towards the heart of the town, until she reached a market square. Many of the shops displayed groaning stalls beneath their colourful awnings. She scoured the various merchants’ wares until she found what she was looking for.
A moment later, a rainbow of cloths arced through the air as she hurled a blast of wind to upend the table of a fabric seller.
The woman screeched in dismay, hurrying to scoop the materials from the dusty ground.
While several other shopkeepers clustered to her aid, Danae snatched a roll of navy woollen cloth and ran.
She had enough coin to buy the wares, but with an ever-dwindling purse she had decided to only pay where she could not steal.
Once free of the bustle of the square, she darted into an alley and folded the fabric at the top, then wrapped its length around her before removing the tattered clothing beneath.
Fixing it in place with the pins and rope belt from her old tunic, she fashioned herself a similar garment to the one exhibited by the women of Taenarum.
Her disguise complete, she retraced her steps to the kapeleion.
The gloom inside was a welcome balm to the brightness of the day.
It was a small establishment, quiet except for a group of men dominating one corner.
The remnants of a plate of salted fish, flatbreads and small dish of olive oil lay between their cups.
Another man sat beside the hearth, idly strumming a seven-stringed kithara.
On the far side of the fire was a lone patron, the hood of their faded emerald cloak pulled low over their face, their feet twitching in time to the melody.
Danae approached the proprietor, a slight man with ebony skin. She drew an obol from the purse tucked into her belt and proffered it to him.
‘A cup of wine.’
The man eyed her, then pocketed the silver. ‘Right you are.’