Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (12 page)

“It is.”

“King of Libya?”

“That's who I am.”

“Well, I have come to fight you.”

“As I mentioned,” said Anteus. “I think we can provide you with some sport in that direction.”

“But can we do it tomorrow?” asked Hercules. “I usually try to get down to these things immediately, but I find myself somewhat fatigued from my journey, and would be grateful for a night's rest before we meet.”

“Do you expect to fight
me
tomorrow?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, if you don't mind waiting.”

“You'll have to straighten out your thinking, little fellow. You don't start with me. I'm the champion. You'll have to work up to me.”

“In all modesty, sir, I've done a few things myself. In the past year or so, I have defeated the Nemean Lion, the Hydra, and three-bodied Geryon.”

“Yes, yes … enough for a nice little local reputation, no doubt, but a couple of moth-eaten monsters and a triple freak are not sufficient basis for challenging an Anteus. There are three of my helpers you'll have to defeat before I consent to meet you in single combat.”

“All at once or one at a time?”

“One at a time, my friend. And you'll be in trouble enough, that way. You'll first meet my bowman, Gobi, and fight with bow and arrow. Should you, by chance, survive that match, you shall go against Mordo and fight with club or fist, as you prefer. If, by some incredible twist of luck, you emerge alive from that encounter, you shall be entitled to meet Kell, and duel with sword, spear, or battle-axe—anything with a sharp point or cutting edge. And if, miracle of miracles, you are still alive and intact after fighting Gobi, Mordo, and Kell, why then, little man, you shall have the honor of combating Anteus.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Hercules. “I am quite willing to go through all these preliminaries, if you wish, but I have one condition.”

“Condition? Ha ha … I knew you'd try to back out of it.”

“My condition, sir, is that I be permitted to go in unarmed against your archer, cudgeller, and man of blades.”

“Unarmed?”

“Weaponless, yes. I have so vowed.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, Your Majesty, quite sane. And very eager to commence hostilities.”

“Well, perhaps you're not so mad, after all. Go in weaponless, and you'll last about five seconds against Gobi … and be spared other suffering.”

“Be that as it may,” said Hercules. “I should be grateful for a night's rest before meeting the first of your henchmen.”

“You shall have luxury accommodations,” laughed Anteus. “Pray, come ashore.”

7

Gobi

Although Hercules had vowed to carry no weapon into this particular adventure, he did permit himself to wear his lion-skin armor when he faced Gobi. In fact, that impenetrable hide was the pivot of his battle plan. He intended to offer himself as a target and allow Gobi to shoot arrows at him, knowing that the shafts would be stopped by the lion skin. Then, when Gobi had emptied his quiver, Hercules planned to close with him and fight hand to hand.

But Anteus was wise in the ways of battle. When he saw Hercules clad in lion skin, he immediately knew what to do. He announced that the fight would be delayed, not held that morning, but at two hours past noon.

Hercules didn't realize the meaning of this until he had taken his position in the field and was waiting for Gobi to draw his bow. Peering through the eyeholes of the lion skull, he saw that Gobi was moving very deliberately—restringing his bow, taking one arrow from his quiver and studying it; then sliding it back and selecting another. Several minutes had passed and the archer had shot no arrow. Finally, he notched one, drew the great mammoth-tusk bow almost double, and let fly. The shaft whizzed through the air and struck the lion skin where it covered Hercules' chest. The arrow could not pierce the hide but it struck with great force. Hercules staggered. Looking down, he saw that the arrow lay on the ground; its point was broken off.

He looked toward Gobi again. The giant bowman had not pulled a second arrow, but was lounging there, smiling. Hercules couldn't understand it. Then, suddenly, he did. He realized that it had grown unbearably hot inside the heavy lion skin. This was the hottest hour of the day in the hottest month of the African summer. The sky was cloudless. The sun was a white-hot ball hanging right over his head. He was basting in his own sweat, and realized that Gobi meant to loiter there, wasting no arrows, but waiting for him to get so hot that he would have to strip off the lion skin and stand naked and unarmed before the deadly shafts.

Even as he was estimating the cost, he was shedding his lion skin. Every pore of his body rejoiced as the air touched his nakedness. But he didn't have much time to rejoice; an arrow was speeding toward him.

One of the secrets of Hercules' magical speed was that his mind did not direct his muscles; he thought
with
his body. Now, as the arrow sheared the golden air with such speed that its tail-feathers smoked, Hercules moved—as naturally and instinctively as a bird leaving a bough or a cat hooking its paw at a butterfly. He swerved, and the arrow that was going straight for his belly button just missed him; before it could pass, his hand shot out and grabbed it.

We know that Gobi's arrows were as big as ordinary spears. And Hercules, hefting the shaft, felt it as a well-balanced javelin. His conscience spoke:

“May I use this? Is it not a weapon? Am I breaking my vow? It's not
my
weapon, it's
his
. Does that make a difference?”

All this flashed through his mind more swiftly than a lizard flicking its tongue at a fly. But still too slowly. For Gobi had notched another arrow.

Without further thought Hercules flung his arrow like a javelin, but in a last scruple changed his aim so that he would strike not the archer but the bow. The arrow hurled by Hercules did strike the ivory bow, knocking it out of Gobi's hand.

Archers know that the least tremor in the fingers holding the bow or notching arrow to bowstring means a much larger difference when the arrow hits. So that a bowman trains himself to be very cool under stress. And Gobi could stand in the field, aiming his deadly bolts, stand solidly as a tree stump as enemy spears fell about him and chariots hurtled toward him.

Never before, however, had one of his arrows been caught in flight and used against him. Never before had he had the bow knocked out of his hand. And now, his coolness deserted him. He seized one of his arrows and, holding it before him like a lance, charged toward Hercules.

Hercules saw the huge figure hurtling toward him. He flexed his knees slightly, hunched his shoulders, poised his arms.

A
cubit
was an ancient Greek measurement based on the average length of a full-grown man's forearm measured from elbow to wrist—or about eighteen of our inches. And Hercules was said to have been about six cubits in height, or nine feet tall. A giant, by our standards, or any mortal standard. But a real giant of the monster breed was about twenty feet tall and weighed in at half a ton, all muscle.

The giants belonging to Anteus's band were even larger, and the three he had chosen as his Royal Escort were the largest of all, reaching almost to Anteus's shoulder.

So that Hercules, big as he was, seemed like a child facing a raging adult as Gobi rushed across the field toward him. He stood his ground, waiting. He had doffed the lion skin but still wore the lion-skull helmet. And when the javelin point reached him, he leaned forward, gauging the angle so that the arrow-lance did not hit the helmet squarely, but skidded off. Nevertheless, the glancing blow was enough to knock him off his feet, something which rarely occurred.

Gobi stood above him, grinning, and drove the lance down, aiming at Hercules' midriff, trying to pin him to the ground like an insect on a specimen board.

Hercules, lying flat, whisked away just in time, feeling the arrow graze his side as it buried itself in the ground. Gobi had struck with such force that the shaft had buried itself to half its length, and the giant had to jerk hard to pull it free, giving Hercules enough time to regain his feet.

Gobi raised his lance and jabbed again. But Hercules was not there. He had leaped high, high enough to bring his head level with Gobi's. And Hercules' head, it will be remembered, wore the lion-skull helmet. Hercules arched in the air, whipping his head forward with all the tensile strength of his neck, all the shocking force of the writhing muscles in his back and shoulders.

Lion skull struck giant skull, and that of the Nemean Lion was harder. Gobi's head cracked, spilling a gravy of pink-gray brains. He was dead when he hit the ground.

8

Mordo and Kell

Anteus did not mourn the loss of Gobi. “Any giant who can get himself killed by an unarmed mortal is no giant I want around,” he said. “Gobi's as well off dead as far as I'm concerned.”

He was talking to Mordo. The gigantic, black-pelted bearlike cudgeller was leaning on his club, listening—grunting in agreement once in a while. Mordo spoke mostly in grunts.

“How about you now?” Anteus went on; “Did you learn anything from watching that poor excuse for a fight?”

“What I learned,” said Mordo, “is that it won't be any use to hit him on the head while he's wearing that lion helmet. I'll just break my club.”

“Poor thinking,” said Anteus. “If you hit him hard enough, you'll ruin
his
head inside that helmet. Hit him, hit him! Break your damned club; you have plenty. But when you're through breaking clubs, your man's head should be a mush of blood and bone.”

“Sounds good. I'll do it,” grunted Mordo. “And I'm ready for him if he tries that jumping butting trick on me. I won't hold still for it like Gobi. I'll swat him in midair. Squash him like a bug. I hope he tries it.”

“Go in there and take him,” said Anteus. “He seems to be ready.”

Mordo and Hercules faced each other in a tight ring of rocks on a grassy plain. Anyone stepping outside the circle would be declared the loser—the penalty for loss being immediate entry into the stewpot. This rule was designed to keep the opponents within arms' reach of each other, and served to favor the bigger, slower Mordo, for it meant that Hercules could not use his speed. But Anteus was making the rules, and Hercules did not really expect fair play.

Now, the young man knew that all the giants had watched him defeat Gobi and were very much aware that the lion-skull helmet could ward off any blow. So he expected Mordo to strike not downward at his head, but to sweep his club laterally in a blow designed to smash pelvis, rib cage, and chestbone, leaving him broken and helpless before Mordo, who could then, at his leisure, pound him to a bloody paste. And when the giant raised his cudgel high, clutching it in both hands, and started a downward smash, Hercules thought it was a feint—that Mordo would switch direction in midair, striking sideways at his torso.

But Mordo did not change direction. He continued the downward blow, smashing the enormous bludgeon down onto the lion-skull helmet. It was a terrible blow. Murderous. Mordo had practiced it on tree stumps, and was able to drive a massive oak stump into the ground as if it were a tent stake. So Hercules was quite unprepared for this dreadful blow to the head. The lion helmet held; the club shattered. But Hercules felt the column of his neck compressing; felt pain clamp his throat and claw down inside his chest. He felt himself suffocating; he couldn't breathe.

Nor could he think clearly. His head was ringing like a gong. Worst of all was the pain in his own skullbone. It was as if Hephaestus himself had laid his head on an anvil and was pounding it with his great iron mallet. He realized that while Mordo's blow had not broken his helmet, it had crushed it somewhat, tightening it around his temples, and causing this excruciating pain.

He reached up and yanked the helmet off, almost tearing away his ears in the process. Mordo watched, grinning, as Hercules staggered and reached up to pull off his helmet. Anteus had assured him that Hercules' head would be reduced to a paste of blood and bone, and he expected to see a gratifying gory hash when the helmet came off.

Now Mordo had always believed every word his chief said. And he was amazed to see his enemy's head emerge intact. His eyes were a bit unfocused and his face twisted in an effort to show no pain, but the head itself was definitely unbroken. And Mordo's club had shattered itself upon the helmet. His only weapons now were his fists. The prospect did not dismay him. He really preferred fists to clubs. He took a huge relish in using them. When he clenched his brutal hands and swung his enormous arms he was actually using two of the most dangerous kind of bone-studded cudgels, traveling faster and transmitting more sensation than any club. There was nothing he enjoyed more than driving those knuckles into an opponent's body, feeling bones crack, feeling the taut flesh grow slippery with blood.

Mordo swung his right arm. His fist, big as a cabbage, hard as a rock, arched toward Hercules' face. But that face was no longer there. The young man moved his head just enough to let the fist whiz past. Then he fell, as if knocked over by the wind of the passing fist. Mordo, reacting swiftly, did not realize that Hercules had fallen on purpose. He loomed over his sprawling foe and lifted his great foot, which was almost half the length of Hercules' body. His intention was to stomp that body to a bloody gruel.

But that was why Hercules had fallen—to get Mordo to do exactly what he was doing. Hercules' hand shot out, grasped Mordo's other ankle. Rising suddenly, he yanked the ankle with all his might, pulling the great stanchion of leg from under the giant. Mordo fell like a tree.

He started to scramble up. When Mordo had arisen to his knees, his face was level with Hercules'. Pivoting upon his ankles, the young man swung his own fist, striking Mordo full upon the throat, shattering his windpipe. The giant uttered a hoarse gurgling sound. His huge face went purple. His eyes bulged. Swaying upon his knees, he choked to death before the astounded gaze of Anteus and the other giants who had gathered to watch the fight.