by Luke Romyn
"We'd better get moving," said the commando.
His companions nodded, and Wes took the lead, moving off swiftly toward the mountain Heracles had indicated. It was at least forty miles away, and would take hours of arduous slogging over the deathly, gray desert to get there.
If we get there, thought Talbot, glancing around at the inhospitable landscape, feeling as though something was missing, something he should have noticed immediately, but which continued to remain hidden. Finally it came to him, and he knew they were truly in a land of the damned.
There was no sun.
The ground itself seemed to emit the only light in this interminable land of twilight, and Talbot felt his spirits fade even further. What sort of creatures would they encounter here? The ones he had come across already were apparently those denizens of a world called Tartarus - Greek mythology's equivalent of Hell - but what would Hades, the land of the dead, produce? What could possibly exist in this forsaken place?
Glancing at his companions, he noticed something which terrified him even more than the thought of what might oppose them here. Wes carried on as he always had, seemingly casual, but with an alertness to his visage which betrayed his concern. In contrast, when Talbot glanced over to Heracles, the son of the man known as Zeus, he saw only one emotion:
Fear.
***
The hours passed and Talbot's throat felt as though it were coated in sandpaper. Under instruction from Wes, they were only allowed a single small sip of water each hour in order to preserve their supply for as long as possible. The gray land stretched endlessly before them, flat, like a giant salt basin, the colorless ground cracking beneath their steps like weathered parchment.
Nothing had attacked them since they'd first arrived, and Talbot was growing concerned. Was there really nothing out here, or were their enemies merely hidden, waiting for them to become comfortable, in order to strike? The fact that the landscape prohibited stealth was contradicted by Talbot's memory of the attack on the beach, when their enemies had erupted from the very ground.
Several hours passed, before his unspoken question was answered. Hidden within a shallow hollow was a great skeleton bearing a head at each end. It took Talbot a moment to recognize this beast as identical to the one Wes had defeated when they'd first arrived. He wracked his memory for the name of the creature....
Amphisbaena!
It appeared this amphisbaena had died of natural causes, possibly starvation, and Talbot had a sudden vision of thousands of creatures hurtling through the rift from Tartarus, only to wander this desolate land in search of food. A part of him felt some sort of remorse for those poor creatures - that is, until he remembered they were all potentially driven to find and kill him.
His remorse dried up pretty quickly.
Thunderous hoof beats snapped Talbot out of his reflection. Through the gloom two beasts hurtled at great speed toward them. Wes and Heracles drew their weapons and stepped protectively in front of Talbot. The beasts appeared to be dragging something behind them through the gray earth, plumes of dust churning into the lifeless air.
"We are indeed in luck," rumbled Heracles, sheathing his sword. Wes appeared more reluctant to lower his guard with the beasts still thundering toward them. "These are the bulls of Khalkotauroi - the bronze bulls." When Talbot and Wes said nothing, Heracles continued. "They were created by the smith Hephaestus as a gift for one of your kings. Upon his death they were returned to Olympia. During our wars they disappeared; now somehow they've arrived here. They require neither water nor nourishment, and will transport us all in their chariot faster than we could ever possibly hope to move on foot."
Talbot gazed up at the huge, artificial creatures. As Heracles had claimed, both bulls appeared to be constructed completely from bronze, yet the metal flexed and moved like flesh. Their shoulders stood level with Heracles's head. Talbot noticed a strange red glow dwelling deep within their soulless black eyes. A part of him really didn't want to trust his life on these strange beasts.
"Alright, let's go," said Wes, leaping lightly into the chariot.
The chariot appeared to be bronze as well, but more like the metal Talbot was used to, and unlike the flesh of the bulls. Wes helped him clamber up, and they were soon joined by Heracles, who took up the reins.
"You two had better hold on," Heracles said, and Talbot thought he sensed something akin to amusement in the warrior's tone. Tightening his grip on the railing of the chariot, he noticed Wes do the same.
Talbot glanced down at the construction of the vehicle. As an archaeologist, this was more to his interest. The single set of spoked wheels showed the lightness in constr -
The chariot shot off the mark so quickly that Talbot lost his grip and fell toward the back of the open vehicle - only to be grabbed and hauled back in by Wes. Talbot nodded his thanks and gripped the rail once again; more securely this time.
The landscape shot past them faster than he would have imagined possible as the artificial beasts raced across the dusty ground with seemingly boundless energy. Considering it, Talbot realized this was quite possibly the case. Someone, the smith Heracles had referred to as Hephaestus, had made these beasts using a technique unknown of in Talbot's world. The ancients had taken this as magic and divinity, but Talbot was beginning to see the reality.
If an ancient race saw a man climb into a machine which then lifted off into the sky, then that man would in all likelihood be seen as either a demon or a god. But in Talbot's time such a thing - a helicopter or small plane - was a common sight. Even more drastic would be the results if Wes had landed in a place such as ancient Greece when he'd hurtled through time and space. They would have either deified him or hacked him to pieces.
So it had come to pass that the inhabitants of Olympia had opened a doorway to the world of ancient Greece. Their technology - such as these giant, bronze bulls - had seemed so incredibly fantastic that the Greeks had little option other than to think it was some kind of magic.
Along with the horrific creatures of Tartarus which occasionally broke through, the legends of Greece had been committed first to memory, and then to script by authors such as Homer, growing with each telling until men like Heracles had become gods.
"Heracles," called Talbot. The huge warrior turned his head, still guiding the bronze bulls. "Did you ever have to perform twelve tasks, or labors?"
The enormous Olympian appeared momentarily shocked, but swiftly recovered. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "How do you know of those?"
"Do you mind telling us about them?" asked Talbot. "I need to test a theory."
Heracles returned his gaze to the front. "What would you like to know?"
"I don't need the details, but why did you have to do them, and what did they entail?"
"They were tasks requested by my father, in order to create a power strong enough to battle the beasts of Tartarus. Each involved bringing a creature or object of power back so that we could examine it in Olympia. Combined, these things unlocked the power found in the weapons your companion and I now carry."
"Hmm. Interesting," mused Talbot. "In my world there are many legends surrounding these tasks. Some say you had to atone for some great evil, while others claim it was a trick by Hera."
"Hera!" Heracles spat the name. He twisted around, madness shading his gaze. "What do you know of Hera?"
"Very little," admitted Talbot, noting Wes had adjusted his position behind Heracles, gripping the hilt of Chiron's sword tightly. "My brother was the expert in such things. But I take it you were not close with her?"
"She was a swine," Heracles said. "She tried to cause discord throughout Olympia ever since my birth and framed me for the murder of my children. The woman is the bane of my existence, and I wish my father had seen through her sooner."
"How could he not?" asked Talbot. "Isn't he able to see into people's thoughts?"
Talbot heard Heracles curse softly, knowing he had divulged information in his heightened emotion which he
shouldn't have. "There are some immune to my father's talents," grated Heracles. "Hera was one such person."
Talbot thought about it, understanding Heracles's upset. If it got into the wrong hands, the knowledge could be disastrous for the Olympians. He decided to change the topic back to something safer.
"So the things you collected, they helped Zeus create these weapons?" he asked, indicating Heracles's sword.
"No." Heracles shook his head. "The items were for the Olympian smith, Hephaestus; the same man who created these bulls of bronze. He was a genius, even by our standards."
"That doesn't make you sound like an arrogant arsehole at all," muttered Wes.
"Where is Hephaestus now?" asked Talbot swiftly.
"He was killed during an attack. He insisted on aiding us during the battles, and we were almost routed. His disability caused him to be taken by one of the stymphalian birds." Heracles stared off beyond the bronze bulls he was steering, lost in his memories.
"His disability?"
Heracles snapped out of his reverie. "Hephaestus was lame," he said simply. "Our physicians were never able to heal him fully. It saddens me to think that with all our perceived power, we could not heal such a simple thing."
"Our worlds aren't so different," agreed Talbot. "We have weaponry which can destroy an entire planet, and yet can't heal the most common virus. You'd think with intellect people would gain intelligence, but that's not always the case, is it?"
Wes remained silent, and Talbot was reminded of his vow not to discuss any events from Earth's future. The SAS commando looked away, gazing out at the barren landscape, his thoughts hidden beneath his stoic demeanor.
"How was Hephaestus able to harness the power?" Talbot asked, attempting to divert the conversation away from such morbidity. It would help nobody's morale if they were thinking about the worst of their worlds.
"I am unclear on the details, but it had something to do with the combined atomic weight of the items I collected. When he spliced them together with the metal of the swords, the resulting fission infused the blade with tremendous strength. Similar power was recreated using other items, but to lesser effect. Arrows are an example of what we achieved using more common items; the power of fission is there, but fades quickly, and is only useful for items which will only be used once."
"Was this fission used for anything besides weapons?" asked Talbot.
Heracles turned slightly to look at him, a look of curiosity upon his brow. "What do you think powers these bulls?" he asked.
Talbot cursed himself for a fool. Of course the blacksmith had used the power of fission to fuel other things. The bulls were direct evidence of this, and he should have known. Something suddenly came to him.
"What about the resonance of the Syrpeas Gate? Is that achieved using the power of fission?
Heracles shook his head. "That is achieved using the vibration of the universe. Some structures - such as your human pyramids - are able to capture these resonations and amplify them into a singular power. Not all of these structures were designed to open doorways either. Some were created to prolong life beyond mortal expectations, while others could heal grievous wounds, but ironically could not heal deformations such as the one their creator, Hephaestus, bore."
"What about Stonehenge?" asked Talbot, remembering the resemblance to the rift that had opened for them in Olympia.
"I do not know this name," said Heracles.
Talbot thought for a moment. "Giant standing stones in Britannia, similar to the ones you use in order to create the rifts."
Heracles seemed to think for a moment, but finally shook his head. "It is possible some of your ancestors attempted to recreate the power of the rifts, though to do so would be foolish indeed. A single miscalculated placement of a stone - even by a fraction of an inch - would result in a catastrophe beyond measure. It is likely they had no success at all, otherwise it would have been documented throughout your historical texts."
Talbot nodded. He could imagine the arrogance of men thinking they could recreate the power of the gods. Thankfully the structures of Stonehenge were no more than a tourist destination, never becoming a gateway into another realm full of hideous creatures.
"What is that?" asked Wes suddenly, pointing forward. Talbot's eyes focused, peering through the haze, toward a thin ribbon of ebony in the distance.
"That," replied Heracles, "is Styx; the river of Hate."
"Hate?" asked Wes. "Why hate?"
"There are five rivers surrounding the center of Hades," said Heracles. "They are called Archeron: the river of Sorrow, Cocytus, representing Lamentation, Phlegethon: Fire, Lathe: the river of Forgetfulness, and Styx embodies Hate. Each river is named to represent the states in which a person finds themselves when approaching them. We must be careful; our emotions will be affected by the atmosphere around the rivers."
"Oh," said Wes mockingly, "that sounds like fun. We should have brought the kids, could've made a day out of it. Better than Disneyland." Talbot grinned despite his trepidation. Wes seemed to bolster his spirits whenever he was around.
His smile dropped as he recalled something. "What about the Ferryman, Heracles? Is he a myth, or does he actually exist?"
Heracles appeared uncomfortable with the question. "Kharon was one of Hades's most devoted followers, but following some dispute he was delegated with the duty of guarding the entrances into Hades's dominion, along with others of his kind. He is a true denizen of this realm, and not from Olympia. As such he is able to survive eating things from this place which no other creature can, and he can drink the water from the Styx, which is the most volatile of poisons to anyone else. We must negotiate with him in order to pass the river ahead of us."
The dread in his tone made Talbot frown, but it was Wes who spoke up. "Why can't we just force him to help us? Or kill him if he refuses and use his boat?"
"Kill Kharon?" asked Heracles incredulously. "Did you not hear what I said? He is of this world, neither living nor dead. Our weapons will have no effect upon him, and he will refuse to help us or, worse, decide we are his enemies."
"How can our weapons not affect him?" asked Wes, looking at his sword.
Heracles sighed, and when he spoke it was as though he were explaining something to a child. "Kharon is on a separate plane of existence, one we cannot touch. He, however, can touch us. He is like a spirit, but not in the sense that you would understand. His atomic structure is able to shift between differing times, and in this way he is invulnerable. Even if attacked from behind he will instinctively shift into another temporal frame and become unassailable. Do you understand?"
Wes nodded, but Talbot could tell the SAS commando had no idea what Heracles had just said. Even Talbot, though he had grasped some of what the warrior had explained, had no real comprehension of how it was possible. He supposed any creature from this world would have to adapt incredibly in order to survive.
Talbot stared out at the landscape once more, but all he could see was gray. There was nothing else, just differing shades of gray. Even in his worst nightmares Talbot could never have imagined such a horrific place; a world without life or light, just a ceaseless, hazy glow which carried no cheer, only the promise of more misery.
What sort of creature could live in a place such as this? What demonic beast would be produced by such a realm? Heracles had spoken of Kharon with something bordering on awe. What could make a man who had seen things unimaginable react in such a way?
Talbot brought his gaze forward once more. The ribbon which twisted across the landscape seemed thicker now, and he began to realize just how wide the river Styx must actually be. From where they were now, still miles away, he guessed the river to be at least three miles wide. It appeared completely black against the gray landscape, and a part of Talbot yearned to get closer, just to get a better look at the water.
The greater part of him, however, wanted nothing more than to stay as far away from the river of ebony as possible. Perhaps it was merely m
emories of tales about the entrance to the underworld, resurrected in his mind as they neared the central point of Hades, but Talbot felt the fear he'd so far succeeded in holding at bay, begin to rise once more.
The bulls thundered on without pause.
Heracles adopted an expression of determination.
Wes sat down, propped against the side of the chariot, and proceeded to go to sleep.
And Talbot shook away his encroaching fear, and forced a smile.
CHAPTER 11
The river Styx. The river of Hate.
Such an appropriate name. The black ooze lapping at the banks of the Styx appeared hostile, seeming to reach out for them as they stood upon the bank. The river came nothing close to resembling water. Talbot likened the liquid to oil, but even that was a pale comparison. Whatever it was gave him the impression of concentrated malice, like some sort of liquid evil.
Once they had disembarked from the chariot, the bronze bulls had immediately raced away, and Talbot wondered if it had something to do with the nasty feeling oozing from the black river.
"So where's this fucking boat guy?" growled Wes.
"I am not sure," replied Heracles, gazing out across the black sludge.
"What do you mean, you're not sure? Do you know what the hell you're doing or not?"
"I need no direction from an ant like you," snarled Heracles, his eyes narrowing, and his hands tightening into fists as he spun around to glare down at Wes.
Talbot moved to intervene against the brewing argument, but wasn't fast enough. Wes darted forward like lightning, his right foot stepping up on Heracles's left hip, launching himself high. His left knee came up, smashing into Heracles's chin, before Wes hammered his right elbow directly down onto the top of the gigantic warrior's skull.
Landing lightly, Wes snapped into a defensive stance, glaring at Heracles. The massive Olympian slowly raised one hand to the top of his head. It came away damp with blood, and Heracles stared at it incredulously before releasing a roar of rage. Talbot wondered how long it had been since he had glimpsed his own blood.
