HERA - Iliad Alba (books under 200 pages .txt) 📗

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love.

--Sophocles--

W

ake up Rhea, Wake up. Her muscles ached, and her head felt heavy. Wake up Rhea, said the same distant voice that seemed to come from the wind itself. And then once more the voice spoke, Wake up Rhea. She opened her eyes. The hot sand scratched her cheek as she laid face front on the ground. With a tired groan she raised her head witnessing the marvel of the bright emptiness with vast sand dunes that looked like frozen waves sparkling under the sun. Her dark tunic, which was as black as her long silky hair, flapped against the blowing air. The voice was gone, but the wind kept swirling around her, defending her from the heat that reigned over the lifeless desert. She threw her hood off her head and raised her stare. Around her crumbled structures and collapsed pillars protruded out of the sand. It was the remains of ancient city claimed by the desert.
Hades, she thought. This is no longer the land of the living but the realm of daemons. She sat up, a protective shadow descended upon her making her shiver as she felt a sharp stare drilling on the back of her head.
She turned; a sudden shudder took a hold of her as before her was a Cyclops staring keenly at her. She let out a sigh of relief as she realized the eye to be only a carving on the side of a towering obelisk. The stone pillar rose over twenty feet high and had elaborated writing of a long ago forgotten language running around its waist. The eye which was known as the Eye of Argos was near the crest of the pillar and heading west where the sun would go rest at night.
For a second Rhea thought the voice that had told her to wake up was the Eye of Argos.
“Are you alright, Rhea,” an old man with black hood and a silvery beard came before her. The shadows of his hood hid most of his scars, but the one crossing the left part of his face going from his forehead past his left eyebrow all the way to the set of wrinkles under his bright blue eye was clear as always.
“Yes…I think I am.”
Nurmitor helped her up to her feet, and took a quick examination of her, looking at her from head to toe. As long as she can remember old Nurmitor had watched over her like a mother bear over her cub, although he was of no relation to her, she often regarded him as her overprotective uncle.
“Their close!” cried Dardanus who stood up a sand hill, holding his bow firmly on one hand, while his other hand drawn between his brow length black curly hair and his dark squinted eyes. At the age of sixteen Dardanus was two years younger than Rhea, she had known him since she was six years old and since the day they had met they had been always closest friends.
Rhea followed his gaze; a trail of sand cloud headed their way.
“We have to move now!” Nurmitor took a hold of her hand and they went off.
With her legs still numb, Rhea found it difficult to climb up and down the endless sand dunes. The soft sand was treacherous as it gave up under her weight, if not for Nurmitor’s grip she would have had rolled down the sand hills several times already.
Before her and Nurmitor ran Faustulus the shepherd who had acted as their guide, for no one in all of Argos knew the Aegean Desert as well as he. Faustulus had short black hair, slender torso and yet broad shoulders and a skin that had turned almost brown from all the years he had been shepherding in the deadly desert. He used his shepherding stick as help as he dragged himself up the last hill, before he stopped still, his long red tunic moving silently by the chanting of the wind.
“By Mother Gaia,” said Dardanus as he too stopped by the sight that unfolded before them.
It was a large valley surrounded by sturdy sand dunes that reached for the heavens. Down at the valley three black pyramids erected, standing silently like rock islands on a still ocean. The middle pyramid which was the largest casted a shadow over the two other ones, who wouldn’t stand up to the largest ones might even if they were combined. Stream of sunlight brushed gently against the three colossal monuments making them enveloped in otherworldly glow.
“Before us is the last piece of history left behind by the Titans,” said Faustulus as he started down to the valley. “These are the Gates of Tartarus.”
“Which one of these three will lead us to him Rhea?” asked Dardanus.
She didn’t respond, her attention stolen by the marvel of the black pyramids.
“Rhea which one?”
She blinked and looked at him. “The middle one.”
“Are you certain?”
She trailed her gaze back to the middle pyramid. “Aye,” she nodded, her blue-eyes watery from pure admiration.
Even though the pyramids looked they were close from up the hill, it took over ten minutes for them to reach their shadow, and another ten to reach the small entrance leading inside the middle pyramid.
Nurmitor turned to look at the top of the hill they had stood twenty minutes ago.
Rhea followed his stare.
A dozen of shadows stood there, Rhea counted thirteen men, each of them mounted with horses.
“Who are they,” she asked Nurmitor.
“Bounty hunters, slave traders, who knows,” he stated “But I do know that they will be here in less than five minutes.”
Dardanus reached for his quiver that was slung on his back and took out an arrow. “Then you best move now,” he pulled the string, his muscles stiff and ready to shoot the riders. “I’ll slow them down.”
“No, Dardanus!”
“Rhea I don’t have time to argue, leave now!”
“They’ll kill you, you fool!”
Dardanus looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “We have come too far and sacrificed too much to fail now Rhea, you have to go now!”
Nurmitor grabbed her arm. “His right, if we don’t find him all will be lost.”
“No let go of me! He’s going to die!”
Dardanus looked at her deep in the eyes, his stare fierce, almost furious and said, “He’s the only one who can save our people, Rhea! He’s the only one who can put an end to this madness, so go! Go find him! He’s our last hope!”

 

CHAPTER I: SON OF ARES

Across the fires of Hades,
through the abyss of Tartarus,
there bound to his throne wrought of stone sits the man with no name,
speak to him the name of his beloved and you shall free him off chains.

 
Darkness reigned. The torch that Nurmitor carried was the only shield against the oppressive shadows that trailed behind their each step.
Now and then Rhea caught a glimpse of figures engraved on the walls. First she saw a bearded man washing ashore with his shipwreck. The second one was depicting the same man receiving an amulet from a young boy. On one wall there was cryptic writings running under a series of engravings showing the building of a great monument on the centre of a round city. The monument rose high, where its tip touched the sky itself. On top of the monument was a keenly staring eye. Rhea had seen it countless times before; it was the Eye of Argos.
Despite the gloominess of the tunnels, and the fact that they had been venturing the endless maze over an hour, all Rhea could think about was, had Dardanus survived? Her heart ached with the difficult choice she had made, to leave her closest friend behind for the good of all. She would honour Dardanus’ belief on her by finding the Son of Ares. She was the only one who could find him.
Faustulus, who walked behind Rhea, suddenly stopped.
“What is it?” asked Nurmitor, whipping the torch to his direction.
“Listen,” he said.
Rhea did as told. Nothing, only the silent flickering of the torch Nurmitor carried. But then, a low growl echoed. Rhea’s heart hammered wildly, she gulped as two floating yellow gems appeared in the pitch-black tunnel behind them. Only they weren’t gems, it was the deadly gaze of a bloodthirsty beast.
Faustulus grabbed his slender sword that hung on a rope strapped around his waist. “When I give the signal, you run and no matter what don’t look back.” He brought his sword before him, “Do you hear me Rhea? You go find him.”
Rhea shivered, not from fear, but from the thought of knowing that another person would die, for her to succeed on her mission.
“NOW!” Faustulus leapt forth.
Nurmitor yanked Rhea from her arm, not letting go of her he sped for the darkness that waited hungrily before them. Rhea bit her teeth as she heard echoes of violent cries and ferocious growls.
“What kind of monster was that,” she said trying to keep up what the pace set by Nurmitor.
“It does not matter, what matters is that which way we go from here,” he said stopping before a cross section.
Rhea looked at the both tunnels; one leading left the other right. She closed her eyes, blocking out everything around her, her heartbeat, her breathing, the scent of the burning torch, the moist air, everything. What only mattered was the sign she was searching for, and then like a sharp touch on her skin, she knew.
“The left one,” she said.
Nurmitor didn’t even ask if she was certain, that’s how much he trusted her. They went on the direction she had chosen, and as on countless times before, she was right. Before them was a large chamber populated with stone pillars that reached for the ceiling, and a large army of warriors standing on a long row that went along a carpeted way.
At first Rhea was overthrown by fear and joy, fear by the fierce faces of the warriors and joy by the extent of their manpower.
As though reading her thoughts Nurmitor said, “their not real, only statues.”
He was right, the lifeless stares of the men, the rigid postures and the faded brown colour that was by now grey made it clear, these were only decorations.
“What is this place?” Rhea looked around the sea of statues.
“This is the land of the forgotten,” said a strong voice.
Nurmitor shed his sword, and instinctively stepped before Rhea.
Rhea peeked from behind him; the voice came from the end of the long carpet that ran between the two seas of statues.
“This is the land of the damned, the land of cursed. This is the dungeon with no exit, this is Tartarus.”
“Show yourself,” demanded Nurmitor.
“This might be a prison, but it is still my home, and you will show me respect here, old man.”
“It’s him,” Rhea stepped forth, ignoring the disagreeing glance from Nurmitor. “You’re him the Son of Ares.” She squinted, at the end of the carpet was throne sculpted from rock. On that throne Rhea could make out the silhouette of a man sitting there.
“I’ve been known by that name,” he said then pausing for a second before continuing, “What has brought you