Storming Paradise (15 page)

Hercules smiled in agreement. “Why have a human soul when you can have a god's?” he said.

Leaning heavily against him, Iolaus gasped. “No, Hercules—you can't stay here, not for me. We'll figure a way—”

Hercules silenced his companion with a look. “You gave up a sliver of your immortal soul for me,” he said. “Allow me to return the favor.”

“A sliver?” Cottus laughed. “We'll take all of it, godling!”

Iolaus knew he would not win this argument. Regretfully, he bowed his head, accepting his partner's grim fate but knowing it would forever weigh heavily on his conscience.

Hercules and Iolaus were escorted by Cottus into the chamber where the street platform waited.

“I guess you won't have cause to use this again after this,” Iolaus said, cheerily. He did not feel cheerful, he was worrying about Hercules—but he wanted to put on a brave front in the face of his best friend's sacrifice.

“This will be the last time,” Cottus agreed. “Campe was hungry for power but all we Hecatonchire desired was change. Thus, the new order down here is change enough for us.”

Standing before the platform that transformed into a street, Iolaus gathered his thoughts before turning to Hercules. “I'm going to miss you, pal,” he said.

“We'll see each other again,” Hercules told him, and the Hecatonchire giant laughed heartily as if enjoying a good joke.

“Everyone comes here soon enough,” Cottus assured Iolaus grimly. “Only the bravest escape from the Tartarus Pits and I can see you're not one of those brave types.”

Iolaus was about to argue when he saw Hercules shake his head ever so slightly. Iolaus frowned, uncertain if he had really seen what he had seen. Catching his eye, Hercules winked—he had a plan after all.

“Lord Cottus,” Hercules said, addressing the giant, “may I be the first to congratulate you on your new position as Master of the Tartarus Pits?”

Fifty mouths split into broad smiles at the words. “You may,” Cottus said.

“And might I ask,” Hercules continued, “a request from such a wise and merciful new ruler?”

Cottus considered this for a few seconds, frowns creasing two dozen brows while the other heads discussed the request in whispers. “You may,” the lead head finally decided, staring down at Hercules. “It is the mark of a good leader to listen to a request, is it not?”

“It is,” Hercules agreed and Iolaus was nodding enthusiastically beside him. “Your machinery requires soul energy to power the platform to the surface, does it not?”

Cottus nodded warily with all of his many heads.

“Then might I then request that it is my soul's energy that is used to dispatch my friend?” Hercules asked.

Cottus shook his mightiest head. “That is unnecessary,” he explained. “Campe's journey used up much of our reserves but we still have more than enough to send the street and its passenger back to the aboveground.”

“Of course you do,” Hercules said, nodding. “But surely you want my suffering to start straight away, and what better way than to be the one responsible for my own friend's departure when I can never leave myself on account of our agreement.”

Cottus thought about this some more. It took him a while but finally he smiled across all fifty faces festooned about his person. “Yes, that would be a sorrow to savor,” he decided. “Wait here.”

A few minutes later, Cottus returned along with his two fellow Hecatonchire guards, carrying a set of manacles linked to a long, trailing chain. While they were gone from the room, Iolaus had whispered to Hercules about maybe getting out of there right away, but Hercules told him to be patient.

“We could be trapped here for all eternity,” Iolaus hissed irritably, “and you're telling me to be patient?!”

“Just for a little while longer,” Hercules told him.

Having returned, the bruised Hecatonchires led Hercules to the indented section high in the wall, where they cupped the manacles around his wrists.

“Your energies will feed the furnace directly,” Cottus explained cruelly, linking the manacles to a ring on the front of the grate located in the rock. “You'll get a good view from up here of your friend's departure.”

“That's very considerate,” Hercules said as, below, Iolaus was helped up onto the high platform that could take the form of a street.

“I wasn't doing it to be considerate,” Cottus sneered. “It's supposed to be upsetting.”

Hercules nodded. “I'm sure it will be,” he assured the multi-limbed giant.

“Be interesting to see what effect the soul of a god has on the process,” Cottus said, peering at the roiling energies that ebbed and flowed behind the grate. “Gonna be something pretty spectacular, I think.”

“I do, too,” Hercules said.

Once Iolaus was on the platform, Cottus worked a pulley and Hercules felt the binders around his hands cinch tighter, pulling him closer to the furnace of souls. Then, there was a sound—a screeching note like high winds playing through reeds—and Hercules felt something begin to pluck inside him, wrenching at his innards. He grit his teeth, feeling the pressure—familiar from the previous time when he and Iolaus had been among the thousands of souls powering Campe's passage to Elysium—and focused his thoughts on what he needed to do next.

Down below, the platform holding Iolaus was slowly beginning to rise, levitating away from the cave's floor with a rocking motion like a boat on unsettled waters.

“How . . . am . . . I . . . doing?” Hercules asked through gritted teeth.

Watching the furnace, Cottus nodded in appreciation. “Real good,” he said. “Reckon you were right about this god soul of yours. It's got more power than I've ever seen.”

“Lucky I'm . . . not a . . . mortal . . . isn't it?” Hercules grunted, forcing the words from his lips as he sank down to his knees.

“Mortals are ten to the dozen,” Cottus sneered. “If we'd known your soul was this powerful before, well—things might have gone differently.”

“Plus . . .” Hercules said, “if I . . . was . . . mortal . . . our deal . . . would be . . . voided.”

Cottus laughed. “That'd never happen,” he said. “You just suck it up and wave bye-bye to your buddy.”

The platform holding Iolaus was higher now, rising above Hercules and Cottus.

Hercules strained against his manacles, his stomach flipping as his spiritual essence was wrenched from his corporeal form. “Check . . . my . . . soul . . . again,” Hercules hissed, forcing the words out between his gritted teeth.

Still smiling, Cottus stared closer into the roiling energies that were flowing into the furnace. The god soul was like no other, it shone with a golden brilliance of retina-aching intensity. Cottus could see it channeling from Hercules into the furnace, the chains connected to the manacles sparking with offshoots of draining energy. But there was something else there too, something twisted around the churning fire of the god's soul—like a tie weaved into plaited hair. The line was bright green and orange, a thing of beauty—and its appearance made Cottus want to vomit.

“Mortal,” Cottus blurted, studying that twist of green-orange energy. “You're . . . you . . . mortal!” he shrieked nonsensically, turning on Hercules.

A smile appeared on Hercules' face as beads of sweat poured down his forehead. “Half-mortal,” he corrected between strained grunts.

An angry red blush rose across Cottus' cheeks, and his many eyes widened in horror.

“Our deal is . . . worthless,” Hercules said, snapping the manacles apart with a wrench of his powerful arm muscles. “I'm half mortal.”

“Impure thing! Impure soul! You tricked me!” Cottus shrieked. “You tricked me! You said you were—”

“No, I told you that a god's soul was worth a great deal to you,” Hercules said, “and that you might take mine. You put those two statements together, not me. The god and mortal aspects of my soul—”

“Cannot be unraveled! You tricked me,” Cottus growled, anger welling inside him.

“More a case of ‘buyer beware,'” Hercules said. “And I don't imagine you'll want to bring down the heat that having the mortal aspect of my soul here might entail.”

As he spoke, Iolaus called from the platform hovering in place in the center of the cavern. “Um, buddy—you want to hurry this up? Our ride's about to leave.”

Hercules addressed Cottus. “Well?”

“Go!” Cottus sneered. “Go before I lose my not-insignificant temper.”

Hercules leapt out onto the rocky platform, meeting Iolaus at its edge.

“Are we really leaving?” Iolaus asked.

Hercules nodded. “It takes a big man to admit when he's lost,” he said, indicating Cottus. “A giant even.”

With that, the furnace was stoked once more and the sorcerous mechanism that powered the platform was sent up through the layers of the realms, up to the Earth's surface, the one place where the sun rose to mark morning and set to herald night.

It was sunset when Hercules and Iolaus reached the surface—they had spent a whole day in the Tartarus Pits. They emerged in a familiar fishing village overlooked by a ridge of high cliffs—the same cliff path that they had walked along when they had had their initial encounter with the sorcerous street of stolen souls. It seemed appropriate somehow, ending up here where it had all begun.

The village was bustling with life, reunions and blessed relief coloring the atmosphere with joy, visitors looking forward to finally getting home. When the sorcerous street emerged once more, moving whole chunks of the village aside as it appeared, a group of locals ran to look, grabbing swords and shovels and fishing hooks, anything that they might use as a weapon. They need not have bothered—Hercules and Iolaus were the only passengers and, since the two men had personally freed everyone in this village from the cages of the underworld, nobody had any cause to doubt their trustworthiness.

A cheer went up instead, and the crowds insisted on hosting a party in the heroes' honor. Within just a few minutes, music was playing and casks of wine were being opened.

Hercules and Iolaus accepted the honor, too exhausted and too hungry to complain.

“It's good to be back on Earth, is it not?” Hercules cheered as a serving maid poured him and Iolaus wine from a skin.

“It's the place I call home,” Iolaus agreed, raising his goblet.

“You're in remarkably good cheer,” Hercules observed, “after all you've been through.”

“There's nothing like doing something that'll kill you to make you feel more alive!” Iolaus said, and Hercules had to agree.

The mysterious street sunk back into the ground as the festivities continued, its purpose expired. Phoibe found Hercules and Iolaus as the celebration rattled on all around them. She was with her husband Erastos and son Kyros, the worry finally departed from her face.

“I have to thank you for everything you've done,” Phoibe said when she finally managed to brave the crowds long enough to reach the two heroes. “You can't know what it means to lose someone so dear, and just how amazing it is to have them back when you thought you might never see them again.”

Hercules and Iolaus exchanged a knowing look. They did know—split between realms, risking their very souls to save not just the world but each other. No matter what Iolaus might claim, and no matter how Hercules might rib him for it, the bond they shared was that of warriors in a common cause, brothers in arms, equals.

“Go, enjoy your time together,” Hercules told Phoibe after thanking her for her gratitude.

Phoibe thanked him again, giving him a token woven from the branches of a tree to show how grateful she was.

As Phoibe departed, Hercules drained his goblet and placed it down on the table. “We should be going, too,” he said, pitching his voice just loud enough for Iolaus to hear as the revelers partied.

Iolaus frowned, taking in the festivities—dancing and laughing, foods and wines—that were continuing all around them in their honor. “Are you sure? The party's only just starting,” he said.

“I think I've had enough revelries for one lifetime,” Hercules told Iolaus as he rose from his seat.

Iolaus shook his head and sighed. “Ah, you don't mean that.”

Hercules held out a hand to help his exhausted companion up. “Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but a day off never hurt a man—or a god.”

The festivities carried on into the night, long after Hercules and Iolaus had departed.

High above the Earth in the fields of Elysium, the fabled warriors of the past sat quietly in the day room of the citadel of heroes, supping at warming drinks and regaling each other with stories about the battles they had fought, the victories that they had won.

White clad attendants bustled about, ensuring that the old heroes had everything they needed, so that they could enjoy eternity without worry. Among these attendants was a newcomer—Campe, the she-dragon. Her wings had been clipped and she had been given an ultimatum—to stay and serve or be exposed to the gods, and accept their doubtless cruel and imaginative punishment for her attempted insurrection. She had opted to remain here, to serve the heroes of old.

But as she plumped an Amazon's cushions (“More plump! I want to be able to see Zeus' bald spot!”), Campe's thoughts turned to Hercules and the defeat that he had dealt her. It was a temporary set-back, she knew. His time would come. A monster used to serving suffering through eternity knows well the value of patience, and Campe knew it was only a matter of time before Hercules' soul returned here, to Elysium, to collect his own reward as hero. When he did, she would be waiting—and on that day, the tranquility of the fields of eternal rest would be shattered beyond all imagining.

Campe smiled at the thought of Hercules—her nemesis, the instigator of her downfall—suffering at her hands, trapped forever in a perfect eternity turned sour. Her thoughts were interrupted by a man's voice calling to her. “Get me more milk!” he called. “Cold this time, not like last time!”

Fuming, Campe went to fetch the retired hero his drink. Revenge could not come quickly enough.

The End