The Trials of Hercules (15 page)

My grandfather had made a point to tour his polis once each year, sometimes twice. Each visit to the Lerna District added to his realization that the district could not continue. The water monster was driving residents, farmers, and merchants from the area. On top of desirable people leaving, bounties on the monster’s head attracted too many undesirables who developed their own version of the law and did not hunt fairly. They poisoned the lake and fashioned homemade grenades that destroyed all the wetland fauna except the monster they were after—the monster that ended up being given the name of the dying district. Angered over their lack of success, the bounty hunters turned on each other and those few people still residing in the district.

With every attack on her home, Lerna became meaner. With the easy pickings of men distracted by brawling one another, she grew larger and stronger than ever before. Once the poachers were gone, Lerna turned to devouring the travelers and traders trying to pass through the district on their way to Portaceae City. The governor pleaded with my grandfather saying the district was impossible to manage, the swampy land was good for little, and Lerna had clearly staked her claim. Reluctantly, my grandfather agreed, rehoused those who still lived in the area, and began a public works project so travelers would no longer have to pass through the district.

Lerna was a legend in herself. When people still traveled to Portaceae, the two best-selling souvenir postcards they purchased were those featuring drawings of the Herene peacocks and those sporting a rendering of Lerna. She is a part of Portaceae’s identity, but for Herc and me to survive, this day will have to be her last.

The sun, visible only as a gauzy spot of yellow through the low clouds, is already past its midday height when the worn roadside sign that warns travelers to go no further comes into view. With his horse hobbled in the field beyond the muck of the swamp, Altair warms himself near a fire he’s built on the road. When he sees us, he picks up his camera and trains it on us.

“Do you think Iole likes watching you in that chariot?” I ask.

“Iole is a Herene. She has a vow of chastity to uphold. Their virginity protects the polis.”

“From the state of Portaceae, I think one or two of the Herenes haven’t stuck to their vows. Besides, I don’t think Iole would mind risking the wrath of Hera for you.”

Herc tells me to shut up, but I don’t miss the twitch at the corners of his mouth as he tries to suppress a grin. We slow the horses to a stop.

“Gods be with you, Altair. How are your children?” Herc asks as he reaches for Altair’s hand and shakes it in greeting.

“And with you. They are well. Quite well. But my wife is feeling ill. Probably just some bad meat from the butcher.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask looking to the fire.

“Since early morning. Fog always gives me a chill. The road was the only dry place to build a fire.” He looks sheepishly between Herc and I probably worried that, as vigiles, we will insist he adhere to laws regarding campfires.  “Should I put it out?” He clicks off the camera.

“No, it’s not as if anything in this swamp would burn anyway,” I say. Herc and I step out of the chariots. When I take my first step, I sway as if walking on the deck of ship caught in a storm. After being on the chariot, the ground feels like it’s still moving under me. Altair’s horse whinnies to ours as we work to release them from the chariots. Once the horses are hobbled and dining on dew-soaked grass, Herc and I gather our weapons and Altair follows after us.

The Lerna Road ends at the sign and as we continue beyond the warning, the grassy field changes over to tall reeds and the ground squishes under our feet. The horses’ nickering to one another echoes off a steep rock face, but other than their calls, the area is silent. Even at midday, the fog that gathers over the lake is thick enough to block most of the sun’s warmth.

“She’s been in there since I arrived,” Altair says pointing to a deep cave in the rock wall. “I’ve been checking the area out since I got here. The lake feeds into that cave. I’m not sure how far back the cavern goes, but you can see the size of it. The dikes have cut the lake off from the river just a bit north, but water has seeped into some of the lower areas to make sloughs. The sloughs and the rock face are catching this fog and making it stick.”

“And Lerna’s in the cave, you’re sure?” Herc asks.

“I could see the outline of something in there. It could be Lerna, it could be a boulder, but whatever it is hasn’t stirred and there’s been no movement to ripple the water.”

“Maybe she’s dead already,” I say.

“We don’t have time to find out. We need to get her out of there.”

Herc touches his chest, feeling for his vigile charm out of habit. All vigiles develop this ritual for good luck and, perhaps, for comfort. I’ve seen Herc do it more than once since giving up his charm and each time he drops his hand and shakes his head as if chastising himself for the superstitious gesture. He slips his bow from his shoulder and strides back to the fire.

“You may want to start filming,” I say as my hand drifts to my own chest and touches both the charms I now wear—Herc’s larger peacock with its clutch of a dozen arrows and my smaller peacock that grasps ten arrows. Altair hoists his camera onto his shoulder and clicks a button.

From his quiver, Herc selects several arrows with a black muck coating the spot between the shaft and the head. We don’t use this type of arrow often as vigiles—part of our job being to put out fires, not start them—but we do keep them on hand for Portaceae’s Founding Day. The arrows are dipped into a bonfire and then shot up into the air. With hundreds of vigiles doing it, the flaming arrows create a waterfall of fire that arcs into the river. Once I’d gotten old enough to get over my fear of swimming, I would go back the day after Founding Day to retrieve as many arrows as I could from the water. It was one of the few things I could do to impress Herc who has always been a poor swimmer.

Herc dips an arrow into the flames, notches it, aims for a fraction of a second and fires. Five more flaming arrows fly off in a span of only a moment. Each arrow lands in the cave, lighting the interior and hitting what is clearly not a boulder. Lerna, her moss-green hide glowing under the burning heads of the arrows, lets out a shrill call like the sound of a thousand hawks keening at once.

Lerna shows no sign of her age as she springs from her lair into the pool of the lake. She’s massive. Her body could house our three horses and the chariots with room to spare. She has no legs, but if rumors are to be believed, she can slither her body faster than a centaur can run. The end of her fat tail is tipped in rattles, which she shakes above the water line as she lashes her body back and forth. There’s no doubt the sound is a warning to back off.

I wonder how Herc can stand there, sizing her up as if she is simply another wrestling opponent. I’ve already taken several steps back without even noticing my feet were moving. I do not want to face this creature. My gut roils into a churning mess, not because of the rattling tail, but because of the horror at the other end.

Dear gods, the other end.

I hadn’t believed it even as a child, but there it is only a stone’s throw away from me hissing and screeching its anger. The neck, something the size of an oak tree, sprouts into nine thick branches topped with nine reptilian heads that snap, writhe, and twist against one another. Each time she lets out another hawkish cry, Lerna shows nine mouthfuls of jagged teeth that look as sharp as broken glass. At every moment no fewer than a dozen of the monster’s black eyes are fixed on us.

“Any ideas?” I ask.

“She can’t leave the water,” Herc observes. “She’s too big. She’ll suffocate under her own weight.”

“Then let’s get her out. Easy as can be.”

“There’s not time. It could take her a day or more to die and we can’t risk taking the blood with those heads still active.”

“So we cut off the heads.”

He gives me a grin of approval. “Exactly what I was thinking. Guard me.”

We drop our bows and arrows and loose our short swords. With a yell as if going into battle, Herc runs to the lake’s edge. He’s either betting on the element of surprise or he’s simply getting the deed over with quickly before having second thoughts. I chase after him, keeping to his side.

Lerna lunges out of the water at us but slithers back in as we swipe our blades at her. She isn’t going to be tricked into coming out of her habitat. Herc paces the edge of the lake in a crouched, cautious stance. He waves his sword in time with the heads’ rhythmic swaying. I understand what he’s doing—judging the timing to make a strike—but have no idea how he intends to reach any of the necks. My own eyes flick to each one of the reptilian heads. I ready my sword to attack if any of them makes a lunge toward my cousin.

“The tail,” Altair shouts.

I jerk my head, but the warning has come a moment too late. I curse myself for my stupidity of ignoring the old girl’s hind end. Her tail has slithered around to only a hand’s breadth from Herc’s leg.

“Herc, back up,” I yell.

Herc takes a step, but the tail is already flying like a whip. It snaps out straight, the end giving off a sharp rattle like hail on a thin roof. In less than a heartbeat, the tail coils around Herc’s leg. In another whip-like move, Lerna yanks the tail up, dangling Herc in front of her heads.

I rush forward, but can do nothing. The creature is too far out of reach. Herc doesn’t pause a moment. His sword slashes out each time the tail swings him near a head. His third attempt connects with a neck and one of the heads tumbles into the water below. As Herc lets out a triumphant holler, the monster gives another of her piercing shrieks while she writhes and splashes about. Her distraction and movement allows Herc the chance to slice off two more heads in quick succession. The air fills with the scent of her blood—a smell that reminds me of rotting cherries.

I dart forward with my sword ready, but before I can aim a blow my sword plops into the mud at my feet. I scramble to pick it up, but can’t take my eyes off the sight before me.

From each of the stumps left by Herc’s sword, two heads emerge. Starting as buds bubbling out of the blood that pulses in time with Lerna’s heart, the buds stretch up like bean sprouts reaching for light. In little time the hideous things are fully formed with snapping mouths filled with shards of teeth.

I don’t know if Herc notices the regeneration or not. If he does, my cousin is an idiot because he continues hacking and hollering until there are fifteen heads dancing around him.

One head has to control the others. All fifteen can’t lead or Lerna would be pulled in more than a dozen directions at once with every move she makes. But if the lead head is cut, will she die or will another take over as leader? The only sure option will be to cut all the heads off, but that is proving impossible as new ones keep growing from the fresh wounds.

Fresh wounds. Can that be it?

My chain of thought is broken by a scream of pain. One of the heads, apparently tired of playing, has bitten Herc’s leg leaving ragged wounds across his thigh. His face pulled tight in anger, Herc lifts back his sword to cut the head off.

“Herc, stop,” I yell. “Wait.”

“Wait? Wait for what?”

“Look about you.” Herc scans his opponent. Realization and then fear sprout on his face as heads pop up from Lerna’s wounds. “No more cutting,” I tell him. He lowers his sword as he swings past me.

“No problem. I’ll just hang out.”

I sprint back to the chariots and grab our clubs. I rip the padding off the front of the vehicles and lash it onto the top of the clubs with the lacing from my boots.

At the fire, I dip the clubs into the low flames as I kick off my loose boots. The dry padding catches fire instantly, but, without pitch on hand, I can only hope the makeshift torches will stay lit. I rush to the lake’s edge shifting both clubs into one hand as I run. As I was taught to do as a boy and perfected in vigile training, I leap from the ground to mount Lerna imagining her as the meanest, ugliest horse I’ve ever ridden. Unfortunately, I’ve never been trained to leap onto a horse’s back while clutching two flaming clubs and don’t make as perfect a landing as I’d hoped. Just as I’m righting myself, a head swings down at me and snaps with its shattered-glass teeth. I tilt sideways. It misses but the mouth is so close I can see the glint of fish scales on the jagged teeth. With my thighs clenched tight, I use my elbows to grip Lerna’s scaly trunk of a neck and pull myself up.

“What are you doing?” Herc asks as he swings by me. From hanging upside down, his face has become a swollen eggplant.

“Wait to cut until I give the word.” I continue crawling up Lerna’s neck, thankful for her rough, gnarled skin that gives me a foothold even as it grates at the flesh on my legs and arms. I push away the worry of what will happen if her vile blood drips into my wounds.

Once to the top of her main neck, it’s like being in a den of giant snakes. My skin crawls and I pray to whatever gods have given rise to this creature that I’m up far enough without being in the path of Herc’s sword. I hold tight with my thighs leaving both hands free to wield the torches.

“Now!” I shout.

Herc hacks through one, two, three heads with one stroke.

“Hold!” I yell. Herc stays his hand.

As quick as I can, I jab the flames into the wounds. The sizzling flesh and blood stink of burning vinegar. I pinch my lips tight to keep any spatters out of my mouth.

Lerna screeches and bucks. Still holding the torches, I fling my arms around her. She whips her heads back and forth attempting to knock me off, but years of horseback riding have given me the strength to ride this thrashing serpent. Herc whizzes past me, his leg still bound tight by the tail.

“I think we pissed her off,” I joke as Herc makes another pendulum swing past me. He laughs. And then his laughter is falling away from me. Lerna has released her tail’s grip.

Herc crashes into the lake. The heads, snapping the entire time, plunge in after him. I hold tight as I ride the neck and keep the torches as high as possible so the splashing water won’t extinguish them. My grip digs one of the torches into the old girl’s skin and she rears up. Her heads gnash aimlessly trying to latch onto whatever has burned her.