Reborn

by Łukasz Konopczak

  Doom of the Olympus

  Reborn

  Łukasz Konopczak Copyright © 2020 by Łukasz Konopczak All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 979-8635-82737-6

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION ................................................................................... 5

  ONE .................................................................................................. 6

  TWO .................................................................................................. 9

  THREE ............................................................................................ 13

  FOUR.............................................................................................. 14

  FIVE................................................................................................ 17

  SIX .................................................................................................. 19

  SEVEN............................................................................................. 25

  EIGHT............................................................................................. 29

  NINE ............................................................................................... 33

  TEN................................................................................................. 36

  ELEVEN.......................................................................................... 39

  TWELVE.......................................................................................... 45

  THIRTEEN ...................................................................................... 48

  FOURTEEN..................................................................................... 52

  FIFTEEN......................................................................................... 56

  SIXTEEN ......................................................................................... 63

  SEVENTEEN ................................................................................... 68

  EIGHTEEN...................................................................................... 70

  NINETEEN...................................................................................... 76

  TWENTY.......................................................................................... 83

  TWENTY-ONE................................................................................. 87

  TWENTY-TWO......................................................................... 90

  Dedication

  I wish to thank my parents, especially my mother. She was my first critic and reader. I would also like to thank a person, whom I have nevermet. He doesn"t know me either but anyway, thank you Michal Wawrzyniak for reminding me that “Nobody has stolen my fuc*** dreams”

  ONE

  The gods are dead.It"s over. Back in his human form, Nestor gazed at his reflection shimmering in the lake water. His black hair and beard were wild, thick brows above green eyes creased into a frown. On his chest sat a long, jagged scar from an old battle, white against the light tan of his skin. Hundreds of years had passed, and no more duties were attached to the old Satyr, or rather, a warrior who until recently had been enchanted into the body of a half-goat, half-man. His long, gruelling punishment was finally over, but it did not look like he would be able to enjoy his freedom.

  The sea was restless, the waves dancing as if in a frenzy of elation, as rough and feral as the barren rock upon which he sat, crashing against the stone and throwing up salty, ice-cold droplets. The wind blew cold on his cheeks. Grey clouds floated above; no sunshine could reach him and warm his skin.

  “Chaos returns,” he murmured in barely a breath.

  Łukasz Konopczak He had been alone here for centuries. He knew every corner of this island that had for so long been his prison, but the rest of the world was now a mystery to him. He couldn"t remember the house and its smells, nor could he recall the face of his beloved. He was only certain of two things. Firstly, the reason he was here. Secondly, that which brought to the world the greatest heroes this earth ever saw. There had been a dozen or so of them, all united by their strength, speed, dexterity and heroism. Now, they were all dead.

  Nestor was not saddened by this fact. As their mentor, he would never have let them leave his island if he"d felt they were not ready to conquer the world. Their actions had only confirmed his thinking. Achilles had been the best warriorhe"d ever seen, though Nestor recalled his insolence. Jazon, a great leader with a thirst to avenge his fallen father, had assimilated knowledge at a staggering rate. There were a few more, but the most important and greatest - literally and figuratively– had been Herakles.

  He had been an executor of twelve impossible works with a force not even Ares possessed (who, by the by, had also learned everything he knew from a Satyr). Nestor always smiled at the thought of those great warriors and their deeds. He"d treated these heroes like they were his own children, because he"d never been allowed to raise his own. Now he wouldn"t raise anyone else again.

  I will die alone , flitted through his mind. It was a sobering thought. The gust howled above him like a pack of hungry wolves, blowing cold against the rock, blowing his hair and his naked body. To think, after everything, he would spend his final days in solitude on this rock in the middle of the sea, with nothing but his memories.

  Nestor had no idea how wrong he was.

  TWO

  “Elbow up, boy!” the Satyr growled. The boy before him was young, but big as an oak, a mountain of bronzed muscle. “For Prometheus" sake, you have enough strength to lift this island and yet you can"t even hold your sword right!”

  He shook his head at the boy. “All right leave it for now and come over here,” he said. The young man jumped off the pendulum and ran to his master.

  The difference in their height was colossal. Although Nestor was quite a sizeable hundred and eighty-five centimetres tall, he looked a caricature compared to Herakles. These two and a half metre-tall giants were a mountain of power; even when he sat down to listen to instructions, he towered above his master. This didn"t bother Nestor; however, as he was well aware that size and strength were only helpful additions to his skills.

  “Why are you still holding the sword with one hand?” Nestor asked, a little more calmly. “I"ve told you time and time again to hold it with both hands. It"s not a letter- opener, boy.”

  “Because it"s too light,” said the son of Zeus. Nestor cocked his head, a thick eyebrow raised in expectation. “Because it"s too light, master,” said Herakles, putting exaggerated emphasis on the last word. His sarcasm didn"t bother the Satyr.

  “Perhaps the sword is not your weapon. What would you like to fight with?” the teacher asked. “A mace?” “Well, not really. I"d rather just fight with my hands,” said the boy. The sword lay beside him, and he glanced at it, then down to his calloused palms. “I still haven"t found anyone yetwho could surpass me in a fistfight. I"ve got big hands; I can block any kind of attack, and when I"ve stricken my opponents in the past, they"ve always fallen.”

  “Oh, you think so?” asked Nestor, amusement in his voice. “Then get up.” Herakles got to his feet. He was as perfect a boy as Greece could wish for, all powerful muscles and sunkissed skin. His beard was still short in his pubescence, but he was on his way to becoming a strong hero. Nestor"s job was to guide him to that.

  “We"ll do that,” the Satyr agreed. “If you can hit me, I"ll let you fight with your hands, but if I win, you master one weapon of your choice to perfection. Yes?”

  Łukasz Konopczak

  Herakles laughed, towering above his master a
s always. “Master, you"re just going to hurt yourself. I"m…” He didn"t get to finish his sentence. Nestor"s fist blurred through the air, and Herakles barely managed to block it. The giant threw a clumsy left hook; the Satyr, with all the grace of a dancer, dodged with a pirouette and elbowed Herakles hard in the liver.

  For the first time in his life, the son of Zeus felt physical pain. Shock rippled across his face as he lost his balance, almost falling to the ground before throwing out a hand and saving himself.

  He rose and glared at his master, the shock transforming to rage. His dark eyes burned like wildfire, a purple vein throbbing in his neck. The quick humiliation had struck a nerve with the young man.

  Nestor had warned his disciples about using anger in their attacks, but he hadn"t expected Herakles to explode like he did.

  Not good. The ground rumbled under Herakles" pounding foo tsteps as the student lurched towards his master, roaring like a crazed animal, eyes rolling. His blows were powerful, but they lacked grace; Nestor easily avoided the sloppy throws with legwork remarkable for one with the legs of a goat.

  He lightly dodged Herakles" clumsy blows with skill. The young man bellowed his fury, fists whipping into thin air as his teacher spun and dodged and ducked. Suddenly, as though he"d been struck by Zeus" lightning, the boy was unable to move, frozen and blinking in shock.

  “Enough,” said Nestor. “You"re in poor condition and won"t be able to assimilate any information. I"ll tell you everything as soon as you wake up.”

  Nestor leapt through the air, covering the space between himself and his pupil in barely a second. He chopped at the boy"s neck, and Herakles crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

  THREE

  It was a terrible night for Nestor. Because he hadn"t been fully human for centuries, he couldn"t find the right position to sleep. His legs were longer, thicker, the skin of his heels soft and sensitive instead of the trusted hooves. He wriggled, turning from side to side, sighing hard as if he was hoping to blow out his frustration.

  Apart from the general discomfort, he had another problem. Though the curse had been lifted, he had one very heavy burden left. Every now and then, he would cry. And it wasn"t like a child, but like an adult goat. When he was still a Satyr, he"d found it easy to reign in his emotions, but now this sound almost broke out of his diaphragm now and then, like an animal in distress. After hours of torment, sleep finally came. But this one, instead of being welcome and restful, turned out to be another reason for worries.

  Four

  The sun cast its orange glow on the island, warm on the rock, a final bit of light before it sunk below the horizon and twilight fell. It was almost dark, a merry campfire crackling and popping, before Herakles" eyelids twitched. He gave a low groan as he floated back to consciousness.

  Nestor was maturing the rest of the goulash he"d made from a slaughtered boar. It was his favourite dish, a delicacy he"d perfected over his years on the island. With Herakles around, having any spare food left over after a meal was bordering on a miracle. The Satyr ignored his recovering student; Herakles was already sitting up, rubbing his neck where Nestor had hit him, looking sheepish.

  “You have a soup kettle behind you. Eat,” h e said shortly, his gaze not moving from the fire as he slowly stirred the stew.

  “Thank you, master,” said the repentant disciple and added, as though trying to kill the awkward silence, “You cooked the soup here?”

  Łukasz Konopczak Nestor smiled in response. “Yes. It was easier for me to make it here than to drag your huge calf for five meters. How much do you even weigh?”

  Herakles gave a snort of laughter as Nestor grinned back. Then the mirth died.

  “Well, you saw it yourself, master. I was angry,” Herakles muttered without meeting his master"s eyes. “No. I could have been angry at the weight of this iron that I had carried here,” said Nestor, gesturing to the huge pot that sat between them. You were beyond rage,” the Satyr rested one strong elbow on his fur-covered knee. “All I did was best you in a fistfight. I didn"t taunt or torture you, yet you were blind with fury. You wanted to destroy me.”

  Herakles reached for the soup kettle behind him and snatched up his soup. He drank deeply, slurping like he was on the verge of starvation. When he had already emptied half the pot, he put the bowl down, wiped his face with the back of his hand. He stared at it, as though all his memories hid in his palm.

  “It"s a curse.” He said finally. “From my stepmother, Hera,” he spat the word like it was poison on his tongue. “She tried to kill me from the moment I was born, but because of my strength, I could fight back and neutralise the threat. Someone was always defending me or I protected myself, so she came up with something else. Together with my uncle, Hades, she devised a plan in which, by implanting the soul of Kronos into me, I was to fight a constant inner struggle that would lead to my death, take over my body, and kill Zeus, my father. But the soul that has suffered in Hades through eons is weak. It only comes to light when there are very strong emotions. Panic, pain, euphoria. Anger.” He finally met his master"s eyes, pain etched in the young man"s features.

  Nestor watched with his chin resting on his knuckles, processing everything he just heard. Hera was betrayed by her husband many times, but as far as Hades was concerned, he seemed no crueller than his twin brother, Zeus. Nestor once again found out that this divine family was consumed by problems.

  “Well, so we have a lot of work to do,” said the master and put out the fire. He got up and approached Herakles. “Tomorrow we start your mental training, boy.”

  The strongman stared at the Satyr with a hazy look in his eyes, as though he did not understand anything of what he had just heard. There was a desperate helplessness in his eyes.

  “Tomorrow, I"ll explain everything to you,” said Ne stor, more gently. “Have some more soup and get some rest. We rise at dawn.”

  Five

  King Minos of Crete was a generous and caring, but above all, a just ruler. His rule had led to the great development of trade, raising the standard of living even for the poorest and reducing crime to almost zero. The king had no enemies, so technically speaking he did not need protection, but for the preservation of traditions and appearances, of course, such a body existed.

  The leader of this body was Nestor. The handsome, well-built and well-educated man had little work to do to stop his master"s potential assassins, but that would never stop him from being the best warrior in the region and perhaps in all of Greece. This title, of course, did not fall to him out of office.

  Even when the current ruler of Crete was a child, his father, Asterion, had led countless battles against the pirates who"d terrorized this beautiful land. During one of those battles, Asterion"s ship was surrounded by several enemy ships. That manoeuvre was led flawlessly and precisely by the then-faced fear of the seas, Fedrys the Ruthless. Almost the entire crew of the king was slaughtered and the ruler himself was to be captured for ransom. But Nestor had come to the rescue.

  As his thencommander claimed, he"d ignored the order to stay on the ship and thrown himself into the sea to help the surrounded king. He"d boarded the pirates" ship and laid down the corpses of forty-three men, cleverly using a narrow passageway to the captain"s cabin. Fedrys the Ruthless had managed to escape, but never returned to Crete, saving face by spreading stories of Kraken that had helped Asterion and his fleet. As for Nestor, he was awarded the highest state decorations, received his own land and became the head of royal protection. He held this position until one hot night in July.

  SIX

  “So, tell me again. Why are you losing control?” Nestor asked. “As I told you, master, it"s a curse.” Despite Herakles" great stature, muscle and character, he now sat repentant, like a fierce dog that had been beaten into submission.

  “And who told you that?” asked the Satyr. “Because although I believe in the omnipotence of the gods and especially their cruelty, this story does not sound particularly… convincing.” Especia
lly considering Kronos" relationship with his children.

  “I don"t understand, master,” said the confused young man.

  “That"s what I thought,” said the mentor with care. “First of all, who do you think Kronos is?” From the beginning of the conversation, Herakles seemed to be very lost, but now it looked as though his curiosity was growing. The further the conversation went, the more he straightened, as if he wanted to bring himself closer to his master"s voice.

  “Uyyy, well,” said the boy, dark eyebrows creasing. “He"s a cruel titan who almost killed my father and the rest of my family. He was born of chaos and came to destroy our beautiful world, which was built by the Olympic gods.”

  Nestor tried to fight the laughter that screamed to break out like a hurricane from his larynx. He tried to hold it in, but it burst from him like waves crashing against a crumbling dam. His shoulders shook as he snorted, then he fell to the ground, laughing like he hadn"t laughed for a long time. He dragged his goat legs, tears running down his cheeks. Watching the whole scene, Herakles did not quite know how to behave. To laugh or to protest? Or be offended? Finally, his master calmed down and rose. He straightened, holding his aching stomach, wiping a mirthfilled tear from his eye.

  “First of all, your father has some nerve,” Nestor chuckled. “Secondly, Kronos was actually a bad titan, because he ate his own children. But thanks to the intervention of his wife, he did not manage to eat them all. That"s who your father was.”

  When he finished, Nestor realized that the young man needed a moment to understand what he had just heard. He waited and watched. After a few seconds, Herakles" pupils began to dilate, accompanied by the socalled “fall of the jaw,” which the young Greeks used to describe shock.

  “So, you"re saying Kronos is my grandfather?” he looked like he was torn between enthrallment and disgust. “I don"t know whether to feel sorry for you, boy, or be jealous,” said the Satyr. “The fact is that you were lied to. Another thing is that releasing such a powerful soul from Tartarus is an extraordinary risk. And because I"ve had the pleasure or, rather, displeasure of meeting Charon, I don"t think he"d take on this task. He"s very fundamental. Transportation goes one way only. Hades himself is afraid of him, and I needn"t remind you that he is the master of darkness.”