Storming Paradise Read online

  “So, how is it you ended up here?” Hercules asked, concern furrowing his brow.

  “Ah, well,” the inventor replied self-consciously. “Let’s say nobody else ever died using one of my inventions.”

  Before Hercules could ask anything further, the energies of a thousand noble souls rushed into the harness, and he found the ground opening up beneath his feet. With a jolt, Hercules was sent rocketing down into the grass, down through the channel of light and scent, down past Hades’ realm, down into the depths of the Underworld.

  Hercules came plummeting from the ceiling of the cavern, accompanied by his yell of sheer exhilaration. The floor of the cavern rushed up to meet him, and an instant later he struck its hard, unforgiving rock surface with a great crash.

  It took a few moments for Hercules to recover his senses after that. He lay against the floor, groaning. When he looked up, he saw a pair of huge feet standing just a few feet away from him—a Hecatonchire giant.

  “Hi, Gyes,” Hercules said cheerfully as he began to push himself up from the floor.

  But it wasn’t Gyes. Standing before Hercules was another of the Hecatonchire giants, the one known as Cottus the Striker—and from his expression, it was clear where Cottus had got that appellation. Cottus held a baton in his hand the length of a sapling.

  “Stay there, worm,” a voice instructed from over to Hercules’ left.

  Hercules looked to his left and saw Briareos standing grim-faced over him, a mighty ax clutched in one set of his many hands.

  Groaning, Hercules turned to his right and saw that Gyes, the last of the trio of Hecatonchire guards, was poised with a battle hammer in his hands and a grim expression on his many faces. “Did you honestly think that releasing my brothers wasn’t the first thing I was going to do the very second you were out of my hair, little man?” Gyes asked accusingly. “Tiny bug!” added another head. “Slender maggot!” another taunted.

  Hercules shook his head, as much to clear the abiding sense of vertigo as an expression of disagreement. “I hadn’t really considered,” he admitted.

  Warily, Hercules adopted a more comfortable position as the grim-faced giants paced around him with their weapons in hands.

  “We are masters of pain and suffering,” Briareos bragged, thumping the haft of his ax against his open palm threateningly.

  “You embarrassed us,” Gyes added, polishing the head of his hammer against his skirts but unable to get the ancient dried blood stains from its surface.

  “Now you’re going to find out how long eternity feels,” Cottus explained, jabbing his nightstick at Hercules, “when you spend the whole of it in agony.”

  “Now hold on,” Hercules said, dodging the tree-length baton. “I’ve returned to bring some good news for all three of you.”

  The giants laughed, one-hundred-and-fifty throats chiming in with mocking hysteria.

  “Good news has no place down here in Tartarus,” said one of Gyes’ many faces. “It withers away in a place where hope has been expunged.”

  “Then I guess none of you guys are interested in a promotion,” Hercules said as an ax, hammer and tree-thick baton came swinging towards him.

  In an instant, all three weapons halted in mid-swing although Briareos’ ax landed a foot away from Hercules’ leg, chomping into the bedrock with an echoing clang.

  “Promotion?” Gyes asked, his other faces adopting a contemptuous sneer. “What trickery is this?”

  “No trick,” Hercules assured the giants, holding his hands up where they could see them. “Your old mistress Campe has got herself a new job—”

  “Goddess!” Cottus shouted, and the other giants agreed.

  “No, I’m afraid that didn’t work out for her,” Hercules said, throwing Campe’s headband circlet onto the ground before him. “But she won’t be coming back here, which leaves you fellas in charge of the place.”

  The giants looked at Hercules, laughing at their obvious good fortune.

  “So,” Hercules said, brushing himself down, “which one of you fine gentlemen intends to take position as the lead guard now?”

  The giants looked from Hercules to one another, and their expressions turned sour.

  “I am clearly the most qualified,” Cottus said before the others could claim the role. “I, Cottus the Striker.”

  “What good is fury in running a place of eternal suffering?” Briareos challenged him. “You need vigor to stay on top of this operation, and I, Briareos the Vigorous, have vigor in spades.”

  “Forget that!” Gyes sneered. “What you need is broad shoulders and the ability to juggle all the demands of the Tartarus Pits! They call me ‘the big-limbed,’ it should be my hand steering the ship.”

  Hercules padded quietly away as the giants continued to argue over who would run the realm of eternal suffering.

  While the giants’ argument turned to blows, Hercules found Iolaus where he had left him, hitched to the charging machinery by manacles. Iolaus’ head flopped on his neck, exhausted but alive.

  “Iolaus, wake up,” Hercules whispered, unlocking the manacles with the key that had been left just out of Iolaus’ reach. “It’s time we were leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Iolaus asked, leaning heavily against Hercules as they walked from the cage. “But I was having such a nice time.”

  Hercules shook his head in amusement. “You will never cease to amaze me, my mortal friend.”

  They worked their way slowly across the cavern, Iolaus taking baby steps. Hercules had watched how Gyes worked the sorcerous street, and he was pretty sure that he could get it operating one last time so that he and Iolaus would be returned to the surface of the Earth.

  As they reached the mouth of the cave, however, a tree trunk-like club thumped down on the ground before them. They turned to see Cottus standing behind them, sporting a few swollen eyes and cuts, a grizzly expression on his faces.

  “And just where do you think you’re going, little men?” Cottus asked. Evidently he had bested his companions to take control—albeit temporarily—of the situation.

  “Home,” Hercules replied. “I don’t think you need us down here anymore.”

  Cottus crossed a dozen sets of arms. “There’s always room for more souls,” he said, “and I believe there was the matter of torturing you.”

  Hercules shook his head with despair. “My friend here has suffered enough,” he stated. “If you keep him here his living soul with burn out and you’ll be left with a mess, a soul that knows not where it belongs.”

  Cottus considered this a moment before replying. “That could prove problematic,” he agreed, “drawing unwanted attention to our little camp. But I cannot let you both go—it just wouldn’t be right.”

  “Let Iolaus go,” Hercules said, “and you may have my soul in his place. You heard what Campe said about me, you’ve seen that I survived the journey to Elysium and back—you must know that there’s only one way that I could do that. My soul’s value is beyond price—of far more worth than a mortal’s.”

  Cottus’ many eyes narrowed as he appraised Hercules. “A god’s soul,” he realized, and Hercules shrugged. “No wonder you could travel freely. Obtaining that would be quite the coup. Yes, then—I shall send your mortal whipping boy back on condition we retain your godly soul.”

  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 fa
te but knowing it would forever weigh heavily on his conscience.

  Chapter 22

  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.