The Trials of Hercules: Book One of The Osteria Chronicles

by Tammie Painter

  To reach the uncharted lands on Maxinia’s map requires several days of hard riding. I consider trying to sneak aboard a train, but with two horses I would be too conspicuous. Instead, I let the horses run as fast as they desire. Left to their own, the immortal steeds can move with more speed than a gale wind without tiring. It isn't as comfortable as a train, but it’s certainly a faster mode of travel.

  Moving south through Portaceae, I’m able to pass into the Illamos Valley polis without trouble. The border guard throws a quick glance at my pass and waves me through. From the valley, I ride east through a little used pass of the Great Mountains and gallop past an unmanned border station into the polis of Bendria. When I try to leave Bendria to enter into the vast stretch of Osterian lands that are neither polis nor kingdom, I’m halted at the border’s check point.

  The border man who resembles the quarter giants that make up Eury’s Solonian Guard not only looks at my pass when I present it, but snatches it from my hand and takes it into his booth for closer inspection. Several moments later he comes back out, circles the horses assessing them with a critical eye, and then tells me to dismount.

  “What’s your purpose in Bendria?” he demands.

  “No purpose. It just happens to be between Portaceae and my destination.”

  “Are you trying to be smart?”

  “Not at all,” I say with as much deference as I can muster. Gods, how I wish Iolalus was the one doing the talking. “I only meant this was the more direct route.”

  “To where?”

  This is a question I’ve already planned for. In truth, it’s the first place I would flee to if I ever need to get Iole and Iolalus out of Portaceae City.

  “To Minoa. Minos is a close friend.” This is stretching the truth, but I hope it will, if not impress, at least mollify the guard.

  He looks at the pass again.

  “Travel passes for unlimited amounts of time are hard to come by.”

  Not when you have a crafty and clever Herene to help.

  “As I said, Minos is a close friend.”

  The guard again takes the pass into his booth where I can’t see what he’s up to. How long can it take to look over a small piece of parchment? It’s so long before he steps back out I begin to think perhaps the warmth of the afternoon has put him to sleep. After long days and nights of hard travel during which I’ve taken little sleep myself, I lean up against the chestnut and start to doze.

  I’m jolted awake when the door of the booth bangs shut. The guard scrutinizes me, his face so stern I wonder if he has lost the muscles to form a smile. I hold his gaze waiting for him to tell me to turn back or to arrest me. If he reaches for the cuffs dangling from his belt, I will run. In a heartbeat I can be on the chestnut’s back and clear half the distance to the Middens before this hulk ever mounts his own steed that is tethered in the field behind the station.

  “I’ve seen all I need to see,” he says. His hand reaches to his belt and my body tenses. He thrusts his arm out toward me. My legs twitch ready to leap, but instead of cuffs, he offers the pass back to me. “Good journey.”

  I take the pass and stuff it in my waist pouch. Throwing my leg over the chestnut, I urge the horse to a gallop before the guard can change his mind.

  It’s late afternoon on my fourth day of hard riding that I see three eagles circling overhead. Large eagles at least three times the size of any I've observed hunting for fish along the Illamos River. One swoops down behind an outcrop of rock, disappears from view, and then soars again dangling a piece of meat from its beak. As I near the outcrop another eagle dives. This time I hear a scream before the bird flies again with its own chunk of flesh. I slow the horses to a walk and, worrying that the birds may decide to attack, slip on the lion’s pelt before riding around to the hidden side of the rock.

  There, a huge man, at least the size of the Herene Maxinia, is chained by his hands and wrists to rings set into the rock. He breathes with the harsh ragged gasps of pain, but I can see no wound. Another eagle swoops down. The man thrashes as if he can frighten it off, but the bird plunges in feet first, talons extended. It pauses, sticking horizontally from the man’s body as he wails in agony. The pony-sized bird flaps its wings and, as it pulls itself back into flight, tears a gaping hole in the man's abdomen.

  I dismount and run to him, my bow and quiver bouncing against my back. It’s only a short distance—four to five strides at the most—but by the time I get to him the wound has healed.

  He lolls his head to look at me. His expression more annoyed than agonized.

  “A bit of help?”

  An eagle heads toward him and he grits his teeth ready for the attack. Without thought I ready my bow, notch an arrow, follow the descending bird, and fire. The eagle drops to the man’s feet. He lets out a sigh of relief, then looks up.

  “There's a couple more targets, if you don't mind,” he says as if indicating tea and cookies are ready on the table.

  With two rapid shots I take down his tormentors.

  “And if you wouldn't mind?” He rattles the chains that bind him to the rock.

  I eye him. Although sweat-stained and disheveled he doesn't have the wild look of the Middish. He’s also much too large to be one of the diminutive mountain people, but neither does he have the undersized head of a full giant. Still, he must have committed some crime to be left in such a manner.

  “I played a trick on Zeus,” he says in answer to my hesitation. “A stupid trick nothing to be uptight about, but, well, that's Zeus for you. No sense of humor and worse than Hera when it comes to forgiving and forgetting. At least she's rumored to have forgiven someone. Once. I think. But Zeus? No, very stubborn, so obviously a youngest child. Now, a bit of help?”

  I can't say why, but I immediately like the man. He clearly wants free—who wouldn’t?—but gives the impression that he won't hold it against me if I walk away. I slip my sword from the scabbard, raise it with both hands and hack at the chain binding his right wrist.

  “Good gods, man, a bit of warning before you do that.”

  “There'll be three more coming. Unless you prefer to stay that way.”

  “No, apologies for the complaint. Chop away.”

  Three more swings and he’s free. He makes a great show of stretching his massive arms, arching his muscular back, twisting his bronzed torso, and kicking his redwood-thick legs.

  “You don't know how good that feels.”

  “How long have you been there?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Couldn't say precisely, but I believe it's been about sixty-four years, four months, six days, and just a tad over ten hours. Not that I've been counting, mind you. Now you’ll be wondering who I am.” I give a quick nod of my head. “Let's see if you can guess.” His steel grey eyes glint with mischievous amusement. “Over some roast eagle perhaps?”

  He has to be joking. There’s nothing in this rocky, dry landscape to burn. Not even a patch of grass grows in the hard-packed ground.

  The man claps his hands together.

  “Any guesses yet?” he asks.

  “Not yet,” I respond. I’m amused, but also cautious. This could be some ruse to distract my attention, and with his size, I would stand little chance against him.

  He slowly moves his hands apart. “I hope this still works. It's been a while, you know? About sixty-four years, four months, six days, and just a tad over ten hours to be exact.”

  Once his palms are about a hand's width apart, a ball of flame appears. He settles the flame onto a flat rock. As he moves his hands apart, the flame grows until it’s an arm's length wide. He then teases his hands above it bringing the flame higher. My heart pounds with recognition of who is before me.

  “Prometheus.” I drop to my knees.

  “Oh, good Hades, get up. I'm a titan, not one of your praise-seeking gods.”

  I rise, unsure what to do in the face of the being that gave all men fire in the darkest days after The Disaster. He doesn't hesitate. “Here, drag t
hat damned bird over to this rock.”

  I do as he asks. Once in place, he surrounds the huge bird in flame. The stench of burning feathers assaults my nostrils, but I’m soon rewarded with the scent of roasting poultry. He sits by the fire and I follow suit.

  “So what brings you to the edge of Osteria?”

  I feel no need to lie to the titan. After all, who would he tell? Plus, I hope he might tell me which way to head.

  “I'm sent to find the golden tree of the Hesperides.”

  Prometheus eyes me. I know one wrong word and the flames before me could easily be directed onto my flesh, roasting me just as they had the eagle. I tell him of all that has happened with Eury, the tasks, Iole, and even Lyta. When I’m finished, he sits for a while staring into the fire before he speaks.

  “The tree you're after belongs to Hera and is in the garden of my nieces, the nymphs of the Hesperides. Because the girls can be a bit precocious, a bit forgetful about who should and shouldn't be in the garden, Hera also has another guardian for her plants.”

  “Which is?”

  “Oh, just a hundred-eyed dragon. A reasonable precaution because whoever possesses that tree will have control over Hera. It is her— How do I describe it? Are you familiar with the Pre-Disaster religions, some of them had a concept of a soul. The body's essence of life.”

  I give a hesitant nod. I remember hearing something of it in my school days when studying the cultures of the people beyond the Middens and also that of the Pre-Disaster people who once occupied all the land from Osteria in the west to Anglia far to the east. As I knew I would be entering into the vigiles by that time in my education, I didn't work hard at those studies, but still the concept of soul strikes me as familiar.

  “Good, then you understand if you take a soul—for lack of better word—you control that person. Or in this case, goddess.”

  “Eury means to do away with Hera?” I ask.

  “Not exactly do away with her, but to take her power for himself. Along with her power, Eury will also receive her immortality—the gift of the gods as your Olympian gods like to say even though we titans have it as well. Hera will be alive, but she will be mortal. You'll make up your own mind, but I'd advise you that no man should have the power of the gods. You lot are just too impulsive and short-sighted. Ah, I believe this bastard is ready to be eaten by me for a change.” With a wave of his hand, he lowers the flames until they’re only the size of embers. He then twists a leg off the bird and bites in. “You'll want to wait a bit. The heat doesn't bother me.” He chews and swallows with a satisfied grin. “This is a nice change. And you won't regenerate this, you avian bugger,” he says shaking the leg at the rest of the carcass.

  I use my dagger to cut out a portion of the breast and, with my thoughts pushing my hunger to the background, I eat slowly. Hera is no friend of mine as she has proven time and again. I have no doubt it was she who brought on the Amazonian riot that killed Lyta and she who allowed Eury to become Solon instead of me. I owe her no allegiance.

  But if Eury has her power? Possessing the tree would put her might in his hands including her immortality. Iolalus is right, the vigiles he’s been plotting with are right—we need to rid Portaceae of Eury. If he possesses this tree it will make defeating or deposing him impossible. But Hera. She’s no better. Gods forgive me, but I would prefer to be rid of them both. Or to forget them both and run to Minoa. But yet, I can’t flee from this task. The lives of both Iole and Iolalus depend on me bringing Eury this damned tree.

  “Where is the garden?” I ask.

  “Still going to do it?” He shrugs as if my decision makes no difference to him. “It’s a shame I can't say where the tree is.”

  “You don't know where the garden of your nieces is?”

  “No, only their father does. My brother Atlas.” Prometheus tosses a cluster of bones behind him and rips off the eagle’s other leg.

  “And where would I find him?” I ask as I slice another portion of meat from the eagle’s breast.

  “Just south of here. Look, see in the distance where the stars arc across the sky? He's under there. Literally. You'll have a trek getting to him but those horses should have little trouble.”

  “And any hints on how to get past the garden’s dragon?”

  “Don't go.”

  “I must go. Two lives depend on it.”

  “No, don't be stupid. Don’t go. Send Atlas. After all, he's the only one who can get in. Parental rights or something.”

  “And he'll just go for the asking?”

  “You'd be amazed at how dimwitted my brother can be. He and I are the only two—”

  His words dwindle off. “Only two what?” I prod.

  “I shouldn’t say. No,” he says shaking his head and throwing a thigh bone into the fire. “Damn my brothers and sisters, what loyalty do I have to them? You’re the one who saved me, right?” His disjointed questions have me wondering if perhaps Prometheus has spent too many hours in the sun while chained to his rock. I don’t know what to say, but he continues without my input. “The titans are getting restless. That’s why the earthquakes have been increasing. They’ve gone through this before, several times, in fact—they get jealous of The Twelve and wage war against humans to knock the gods down a notch. After all, with no humans to idolize them, the gods are nothing. It may come to naught, but I’m tired of holding my siblings’ secret.”

  “Do the gods know?”

  “I can’t see how they don’t. Like I said, they’ve gone through this before. They should know the warning signs. But sometimes the gods, like men, choose to see only what they want to see, not what’s directly under their noses. My hope is that they’re making preparations. Now, human, rest. The world isn't going anywhere. Not tonight anyway,” he says with a half-hearted chuckle.

  As much as I feel compelled to jump on my horse and complete this task, and despite the worries building and pressing on my mind, my exhaustion hurtles me into a deep sleep.

  I wake to Prometheus shaking my shoulder.

  “See the arc of dawn?” Prometheus points to the southeast. The sky still carries the darkness of night, but a hint of pinkish-orange can be seen just at its edge. “That's where you're heading.”

  Prometheus has roasted another eagle during the night. I eat my fill and then mount my chestnut. Before I can ride off, Prometheus puts a hand to my reins.

  “Remember, Atlas must be the one to go to the Gardens regardless of what you choose for him to retrieve.”

  I nod. “Stay on the good side of Zeus. I don't know if I'll be around next time to help you out.”

  He laughs. “And you stay on Hera's good side. I hear she has one if you look hard enough. And with her on your side, you can get all you desire.”

  I resist scoffing at his words. The idea of Hera and I on the same side or of her doing anything that would cause me happiness is as ridiculous as imagining an Arean who longs for peace.

  I drive the horses hard for another two full days, making certain that I’m approaching the arc of dawn, then the arc of the stars. All the while, thoughts of Iole and Iolalus fill my head only to be replaced with scorn for Hera. As I ride, memories of Athena’s words creep in on me. She said Hera hated me. Why? And she had hinted at something of that hatred to do with my children’s deaths. My stomach churns, surely not even Hera can be so vile as to take a man’s children from him in such a manner. I think again of how little I owe Hera and how much I am coming to despise her.

  On the third afternoon I find the titan I’ve been searching for. Bigger than Prometheus by at least half, Atlas would have been a sight to behold even if he wasn't performing his duty. In his labor he seems a work of art—an enormous being, bursting with muscle, pressing up the heavy blanket of sky. Out of nowhere I wonder if Stavros ever travelled this far on his many journeys. Stavros. My throat fills with a lump. Another dead because of me, because of Hera, because of Eury. I dismount and hobble the horses.

  “Atlas, I assume?”
/>
  “Where?”

  “You. You're Atlas.” Gods, he truly is dim. “I need a favor from you.”

  “I don't have any favors. I don't think. I could check in my boot.”

  “It's not something you have, it's something you do.”

  “I can't do anything with this on my shoulders. I'm much too busy.”

  “What if I took the burden for you? A break would be nice, wouldn't it? To go visit your daughters, perhaps.”

  “I would like to see my girls.”

  “Good and while you're there—” I tell him what I need him to retrieve. What treasure from the garden I’ve decided will be best for me and for Portaceae.

  Atlas shifts the weight of the sky onto my shoulders. I stagger a few steps, but catch my balance. The pressure is unbelievable. I thought it would only feel like air, like a child's ball on my back, but this is like carrying a million wool blankets sodden with rain. The feel of the sky isn't smooth, nor is it rough; it’s just an enormous pressure. I fear I’ll be several inches shorter if Atlas doesn't hurry with his visit.

  With the weight of the firmament off his shoulders, Atlas skips off like a child at play. I can only hope he won’t forget where he’s headed. At first my mind can think of little as I wrestle to endure the strain and to fight back the overwhelming desire to toss down the sky, but over time the discomfort turns to more of an annoyance than agony and my mind wanders in spirals that always close in Iole.

  She has no reason to care for me, not after my betrayal with the queen, and she may even hate me, but if she wasn’t a Herene could things be different between us? If Iolalus was Solon he could dissolve my marriage, Iole could leave her duties, and I could wed her. The possibilities become impossibilities and then back again to possible as I hunch over bearing the weight of the sky.