Beyond Hades (The Prometheus Wars)

by Luke Romyn

  “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 memories 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.

  The huge warrior charged directly at Wes, who leaped nimbly out of the way, whipping his left leg around to lash his shin into the back of Heracles’s thigh as he passed. The resulting thud sounded just like a baseball bat connecting with a round of ham, and Heracles roared with pain before swinging blindly backward with his right fist, connecting solidly with Wes’s cheek, flinging him through the air like a discarded rag doll.

  Heracles turned, murder glinting within his eyes. But before the enormous man could reach the stunned Wes, Talbot stepped in front of him, barring his path.

  “Stop!” commanded Talbot with an authority he didn’t feel. “Heracles, this is exactly what you warned us of. You’re not acting rationally.”

  Some semblance of sanity attempted to reassert itself, but Heracles’s gaze shifted beyond Talbot, and he spied Wes once more. “He mocks me at every turn,” spat the giant warrior. “I will tolerate it no longer!”

  “Then you’ll have to go through me,” said Talbot softly.

  The warrior looked down on Talbot curiously. “You would die for him?” he asked, gesturing toward Wes.

  “Yes,” Talbot replied with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Now the question is; are you willing to kill me to get to him? Are you prepared to snuff out the only hope of closing this damn Syrpeas Gate in order to avenge some perceived insult? Think about it Heracles, why are you so angry?”

  “He–he mocks me,” responded the warrior, though his voice held much less conviction now.

  “It’s just his way of dealing with fear; you must understand that. Think logically, why are you suddenly so prepared to kill him when you weren’t before?”

  Heracles paused, Talbot’s hand upon his chest as though he had some chance of stopping the warrior should he choose to attack Wes once more. Wes, on the other hand, now sat watching the exchange, all signs of anger washed from his face.

  “I–I am being confused by the aura of the Styx, just as I warned you. The power of its water is stronger than I remember, and I have succumbed wit
hout knowing,” said Heracles finally, his features easing from the murderous rage he had displayed only moments before. “I am sorry, Talbot. And to you Wes, I owe the deepest of apologies.”

  Wes rose to his feet. “Yeah, well let’s not get all weepy over it. Don’t worry about it, mate.” He reached up and patted Heracles on the shoulder. “You’re a good bloke, Hercules. Sorry I messed with you so much.”

  Heracles nodded, ignoring the continued mispronunciation of his name, or perhaps he no longer cared, Talbot didn’t know. Wes looked toward him.

  “And you,” said the commando, pointing an accusing finger at Talbot. “Don’t ever try to stick up for me again. I’m supposed to be the one protecting you, remember? If you get stomped on by someone while looking out for me, how the hell will I ever show my face around town again, eh?”

  “I have no idea,” said Talbot, grinning.

  “Well, that’s fucking right. The shame of being saved by a little sissy bookworm like you would just about do me in, mate.”

  “I have almost no idea what you just said,” said Talbot. “But I’m going to take it as a compliment.”

  Wes grinned, slapping him on the shoulder.

  “Kharon comes nigh,” interrupted Heracles, pointing out over the river.

  Through the gloom of the ebony waves and the haze surrounding it like a reverse aura, Talbot saw a figure rapidly approaching across the dead water. He was tall, possibly as tall as Heracles. But whereas Heracles was huge and muscled, this figure appeared almost skeletal. As the boat drew closer and the features of the Ferryman became more distinguishable, Talbot was unable to hold back a gasp.

  The thing which emerged through the gloom was hideous. A misshapen skull sat atop narrow, sloping shoulders. Thin wisps of gray cloth barely covered the nakedness beneath, and dripping sores ran with viscous-looking pus. Looking back up at its head, Talbot swallowed heavily, forcing himself to stare at its features. He had noticed the misshapen skull, but the face it held was so far beyond hideous that Talbot’s brain was barely able to register it.

  “Well hello Mr. Potato Head,” muttered Wes. Talbot found himself agreeing, but it was the most demented version of Mr. Potato Head ever imagined. More like Mr. Potato Head assembled by a crack addict.

  “I never dreamed I’d see the day,” said the splintered and broken voice of Kharon. “The great Heracles comes here yet again. I thought you would have learned your lesson.”

  “We need passage, Kharon,” replied Heracles. “What is your price?”

  A thin line of yellow drool oozed from the corner of Kharon’s torn gash of a mouth. “My usual price is one obolos coin per traveler, but for you I shall require something more. How about the soul of one of your children?” The creature cackled hollowly. “Oh that’s right, you already killed them.”

  Heracles appeared ready to attack Kharon, but restrained himself with obvious difficulty. “Name your price, and take us across. Or is your price to bore us to death?” said the huge warrior from between gritted teeth.

  The Ferryman clapped slowly, theatrically. “So you have learned from our last encounter, Heracles. I didn’t think that was possible. My price is the same now as it was the last time you came; the price you refused.”

  “I will not –” began Heracles, but then looked down at Talbot. “Is there no other way?” he asked.

  “That is my price,” replied Kharon maliciously.

  Heracles’s gritted his teeth. “Then I shall pay it.” Something in his tone sounded like defeat, but Talbot couldn’t be sure.

  All three clambered aboard Kharon’s boat – a simple skiff, perhaps thirty feet in length, which the Ferryman drove through the waves with a long pole. Talbot and Wes sat in bench seats toward the front of the skiff, whereas Heracles stood talking with Kharon at the rear. Talbot heard the Ferryman say, “The payment comes first, you know this.” Heracles nodded, saying something inaudible before moving forward to where they sat.

  “You will be alone beyond this point. Kharon’s price is high, and I will be unable to aid you further,” Talbot moved to argue, but Heracles raised a hand, stalling him. “Wes, I now know you are the best of men, and along with Chiron’s sword you will be more than capable of protecting Talbot for the rest of the journey.”

  He pointed ahead. “Those two peaks mark passage through to a broad valley, in the middle of which lies Hades’s main citadel. You must not believe what he tells you; the man is a snake. He will try to manipulate you to his own ends. He cares nothing for you or the universe. There is power to be had beyond the gate to Tartarus, and he will try to use you to get it. I warn you again; do not trust Hades!”

  Without further farewell, Heracles turned and strode back to Kharon. “I am ready,” he said.

  Kharon nodded, leaning in close to the huge warrior. It took Talbot a moment to realize what was happening, thinking perhaps the Ferryman was moving to kiss the Olympian. But Kharon opened his hideously deformed mouth wide, even as his scabrous arms enveloped Heracles. The mouth opened wider....

  Wider....

  Closer....

  And then Kharon’s jaw cracked impossibly wide, and his arms snapped tight like a bear-trap, pulling Heracles close. So close, in fact, that his head disappeared completely within Kharon’s gaping maw, which locked tight upon the connection.

  Talbot was sure he heard a scream. He moved to intervene, but Wes beat him to it, leaping high and bringing the sword of Chiron down in a sweeping arc –

  But the blade passed completely through Kharon without pause. Wes barely managed to avoid slicing into his own leg with the deadly sword, and as he recovered they both looked up to see the two bodies – Kharon and Heracles – had begun to merge.

  Like two mannequins placed in an industrial furnace, the two bodies melted together, combining into something new... something else.

  Within moments, the two had become one, and the new creature tore aside the rags it had been wearing, revealing Heracles’s simplistic apparel beneath. Healthy, disease-free skin radiated from where the pus-laden leather had been. The hideous, misshapen features of a nightmare now shone with the glaring gaze of –

  Heracles!

  Talbot moved to rush forward, but something stopped him. Some deep, primitive instinct told him this was not the man who had so recently befriended him. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I am Kharon,” said the voice of Heracles. “The price I demanded from your companion was his life. He is still here, within me, but his power now sustains me. This is how I survive throughout the eons, but that is immaterial. We must get moving. Along with consuming his strength, I also absorbed his knowledge and memories. I know of your mission and the importance of speed.” Kharon hefted his pole and began swiftly navigating their way across the water.

  “You motherfucker! You ate him?” demanded Wes.

  “Not in the truest sense of the word,” replied Kharon, Heracles’s muscles flexing beneath the loose cotton shirt as he pushed through the waves with his long pole. “He exists within me, as do many others. He gave his life freely, I did not murder him. If I had, the transfer would not have succeeded.

  “I am a being of energy, but in order to survive I must merge with a corporeal host, such as Heracles. He is then bound to me eternally, and his life will allow me to continue with mine.” The Ferryman never ceased pushing the skiff.

  “And what do you do when you run out of victims?” asked Talbot.

  “I die,” replied Kharon simply. “But that has not happened yet, and I am able to survive for quite some time between my times of merging.”

  The whole situation frustrated Talbot beyond measure, but he could see no way around it. Heracles had obviously agreed to the merging, knowing what it entailed. He looked at Wes. The commando was staring malevolently at Kharon, but when he saw Talbot looking at him he merely shrugged. There was nothing they could do, Heracles was effectively gone. The thought saddened Talbot, but not in the same way something like that normally would hav
e. The atmosphere seemed to leech his sorrow away.

  Perhaps this was another side-effect of the river; while your hatred grew, all other emotions were drained away, leaving a deep sense of melancholy, if no rage remained. Talbot looked around. They were already half way across the dark river. He attempted to look into its depths, but found himself unable to see beyond the inky surface. “Why do you do this?” he asked Kharon. “I mean the Ferryman thing. Why do you do it?”

  “This is what I am charged with doing,” replied Kharon, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “In this way I am able to protect the dominion of Lord Hades.”

  “Protect him from what?”

  “From his enemies. From those who would seek to take his realm from him. He is a wonderful ruler in this land, and we will never allow him to be taken from us,” said the Ferryman.

  “How do you protect him by charging people to cross?” asked Talbot.

  “This river, Styx, is unable to be crossed by any other craft than the one we now travel in. The liquid within the river is toxic to everything apart from my kind. A single drop is more potent that the most lethal poison and can burn through any material other than this vessel. The obolos coin I charge for passage is not a coin at all – it is a part of their spirit, or soul. While not as complete as an entire merging, the obolos gives me an impression of the passenger – including their intents and purposes. If they mean harm, I will know, and the passenger will be consumed by the Styx.”

  “What about us?” asked Wes. We didn’t give you an obo-whatever. How do you know our intentions?”

  “I know the intentions of your companion, and they were to aid you to protect all realms – including this one. Your intents are not directed toward my master, and if anything, they are likely to help this realm. Thus, you have been granted passage. If you can offer any argument to the contrary, however –”