Heracles: The Return: Heracles, #1

By Nicholas McAuliff

Heracles has not been seen in fifteen years. Now, the demigod is merely a whisper under the fading candlelight throughout the inns and taverns of the crumbling kingdom.

Iolaus, the aging nephew of Heracles, scrapes by as a blacksmith in his once prosperous village - reluctantly forging weapons and tools for a corrupt king. As the blacksmith watches his beloved country crumble around him, he thinks back to the days of glory - the days of fighting for honor and questing on the open seas with heroes. But those days are gone.

Damn you, wherever you are, thinks Iolaus as the fire from the forge casts his shadow onto the wall.

Famine and disorder sweep through already fractured kingdoms of Greece, and rumors of Hydra and Griffins keep terrorized farmers away from already barren fields. King Eurystheus of Argos forms an alliance with the newly risen cults of Hera in order to dominate tiny Greece, and a force of utter chaos offers its services to the king - for a heavy price.

Iolaus looks away from the anvil and peers at his short sword above the hearth. The sturdy, wrought iron blade is covered in dust and years. Outside his impoverished village, cultists, magic and monsters await. The blacksmith knows that only a hero can stand against this chaos. But first the hero must be found.

Heracles: The Return is the first book in the Heracles series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas McAuliff
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227757142

Nicholas McAuliff

Nicholas McAuliff is the author of the Heracles series. The author lives in the heart of the rockies and he enjoys prospecting and fishing and gardening whenever there is a lull in his work. 

Book preview

I

From a spring stillness there came a wind brewing from beyond the northern mountains and soon that wind swept through golden wheat and gnarled tree the same. Down and deeper into the crevice between tree and rock it soared.

The symphony of cicadas was at its daily peak, their song rising in intensity as the sun glared upon the helpless land. The field afforded only little shelter to the group of exhausted peasants who stood gathered around a frail old man. The sheepherder, sitting under the shade of an olive tree far older than himself, would now share a tale for the ages and ages hence. A tale of redemption. A tale of years lost and adventures forgotten. A tale of a hero who would return not because he desired to, but because fate demanded it. Such is the hero’s curse.

The old man spoke with a raspy, worn voice. Heracles, the son of Zeus, the demigod. The hero, the warrior, the man.

The peasants leaned in eagerly as the old man began his story. They were desperate for any brief respite from the unending labor of the fields.

Once, a long time ago, you might find him adventuring through a spring morning's mist in the deep forests outside Athens. Once, a long time ago, you might find the demigod and companions slaying some beast in the mountains before retiring to tales of glory. Oh, an entertainer he was as well.

From his piercing blue eyes, still displaying the vigor of passion and youth, an intense stare drew in his listeners as a swell draws in wayward ships. Now, things are different, the old man whispered. Heracles has not been seen in many seasons. The glory of old, the days of adventure, are past us now. He gazed out past his audience and toward the far mountains beyond. His eyes told the whole story.

Some say that father Zeus himself swept down from the heavens and smote his own son for his insolence. Others hold to the slim hope that the hero is not dead, but wandering out there, somewhere, not yet having realized his destiny.

*****

Hesperos the servant stood atop a block of smooth, solid stone. A statue of the goddess Hera by his side. It was basic in its design: white and nearly featureless, yet strong and detailed in its curvature. It displayed a woman of white flowing hair and a stern, hard face. Hera, the prideful goddess, the queen of all lesser gods and the demander of devotion and loyalty. Like Hesperos, the statue was gigantic, frightening and simple.

The servant himself stood noticeably taller and broader than most men. He possessed long, thick limbs and a head of slick white hair, hidden beneath an ornate, polished headdress of smoothed brass which curved to the sides and away from his head. His skin was creased and worn as if it had spent decades under the red sun, though it held no color. His face wore no beard at all, and his hollow, beady-brown eyes conveyed an emptiness and a driven sense of righteousness that could not be broken by blade nor beast. Adorning his shoulders was a heavy dark robe, underneath of which sat heavier leather armor of the same hue. Beneath his feet, a crowd of kneeling, terrified villagers sat and cried in despair. Their quaint, tiny village reduced to a cooling pile of black ashes around them.

The fertility of the land, the warm radiance shining from above, the waters that ease your thirst, said Hesperos. Gifts from the gods! Hera offers the greatest gift of them all.

Hesperos spoke, his voice a combination of anger and enthusiasm. His men - mere mercenaries and dedicated only to the coin, wore simpler versions of his aggrandized garb. In rhythmic unison they readied short, brittle bows and aimed them at the small group of farmers and workers. The peasants sobbed harder. The horror of the giant was only compounded by his scolding of the innocents before they were to meet their ends.

Suddenly a frail timid man made his last attempt to save his fellow villagers. He rose from the heap of despair and staggered toward the statue, collapsing at the servant's feet. Hesperos looked down in disdain.

We have... nothing more, cried the frail one. We have given you all.

Two soldiers instantly rushed the frail man and dragged him away. They threw him into a heavy, wooden cage that rested on a wagon nearby. The cage was fortified with a few iron bars and a sturdy door bearing rusted metal and snake's-head locks.

As the man was flung into the prison, his arm caught in the heavy door and Hesperos was already there. Without a word, the servant of Hera grabbed the man’s wrist. A twig in the servant's hand. He held his arm in place between the door and the cage. Over and over Hesperos slammed the door onto the man’s arm with brutal speed. Men and women both wailed wildly, just as the doomed man's screams finally stopped, yet Hesperos did not.

Even after the man’s eyes closed, Hesperos slammed the door repeatedly as if his brutality would impress the goddess above. Finally satisfied with his carnage, the servant of Hera strutted back toward the statue as his men unloaded their bows into the crowd. Peasants from children to elderly were violently thrown backward as arrows ripped into their flesh and sent their spirits to another place.

*****

A hammer crashed down onto an already red anvil. That crash reverberated three times. Steam filled the small hut, lifting a veil of haze around the man. A sinewy hand wiped beads of sweat from a weathered brow. Outside the hut, working men quickly shot instructions to each other under the hot sun of June. Again the hammer struck down, and again the ring of iron on iron soared through the air. A hand wiped away more sweat from underneath a head of curly brown hair.

Then a voice. Iolaus, my love. Athena herself could not pull you away from your work.

Iolaus looked up from his work, allowing the anvil to gain a few brief moments of rest. At the doorway, his wife stood with a smile on her face as usual.

Of course she couldn’t, I do not want the old hag, Iolaus said as he threw the hammer down onto a workbench.

Althaia walked in confidently, her hair blond as the sun in the cloudless sky and a smile radiating. Her body was adorned with white flowing robes thus far untarnished by the day’s labor.

Iolaus did not want to stop his work, he never did. Idleness brought empty thinking. Thinking about the past, about what he once was, about old friends, come and gone. Anything though, for Althaia.

What do you want? she asked. Your youth once more? Or the fields of Elysium?"

Without letting her finish her sarcasm, Iolaus grasped her around the hips and leaned her down toward the floor. Her smile grew. Only a slight subtle smirk, barely discernible, betrayed Iolaus's own emotion underneath.

A hint, he said. Golden hair to outshine the Elysian fields, lips that taste of ambrosia, hips like-

Forgive me, Iolaus, came another voice. Nikomedes has come.

The boy’s voice transported the two from their temporary escape and back into the reality of the hot summer day. Iolaus’s smirk disappeared fast as it had emerged. His apprentice, a boy of sixteen, leaned into the workshop, his face covered in a layer of grime and sweat. Beams of hot sunlight streamed through the thatched roof and highlighted Iolaus’s tanned arms. Behind him, the anvil sat still swollen. It sat red and steaming, a piece of crude iron, it was absurdly strong and firm yet still malleable.

Iolaus paced into the afternoon air and marched directly toward his old friend.

The seer, the mystic Nikomedes stood motionless ahead. Wearing a simple black robe and donning a hood, he said nothing. He was as tall and thin as Iolaus had remembered, and just as silent too. Iolaus came to a dead stop right in front of the seer, saying nothing. Nikomedes leaned forward slightly onto his wooden staff. The thing was covered in vines, almost as if they grew right out of the it. A moment passed.

The two abruptly clasped each other’s forearms in a greeting.

How long has it been friend, asked Iolaus. Three winters?

Four.

Need I ask?

No wine. Bread though, I welcome.

The duo walked without exchanging even a glance. They sat under an apple tree adjacent to a tiny stream. That stream rolled peacefully over rolling rocks and patches of green moss.

Boy! snapped Iolaus. Bread and cheese.

The apprentice ran off.

Ah, yes, Nikomedes said in relief. The cheese is reason enough to make the long walk.

You need not a reason or cause, wise one. You’ve no kings or warlords to advise this day.

Forgive me, Nikomedes said as he removed his hood.

The seer's greying, wild hair seemed to mirror the spirit of the woods. His intense blue eyes were still clear despite the years. Though the hermit of the forest was old now, his spirit seemed nimble still.

It gladdens me well to see you, the seer said as he revealed his face in full to his old friend.

Me as well. How fare the forests?

Silent, brooding, lonely. Just to my tastes.

On the stream’s bank near the friends an old man caught fish with only his nimble fingers. His hands like lightning, he scooped them up as if they were no more than wiggling rocks, his skill honed from decades of practice.

Iolaus turned his eyes from his old friend to the fishing man for a moment, then back toward Nikomedes. Then why leave? You always told me isolation was a gift. I wish I had taken your lesson to heart. What great man needs your eyes?

I would prefer to advise the common man. They possess humility. And I do not risk my head by offering honest council.

A moment passed. The two sat speechless. No words need be spoken.

A silent mental exchange occurred, their facial features and eye movements revealing the truth of their souls until Nikomedes at last broke the silence. I dreamt, he said quickly, as if he were already expecting Iolaus’s response.

"I will not chase dreams. Even if they are yours."

Nikomedes looked toward the stream in disappointment.

The last journey almost sent me to Hades. I will not endure that again.

Nor would I expect you to, Nikomedes said. I dismissed it myself. The first night, and the second, and the third... and the fourth.

The host of the meeting broke apart chunks of brown bread and white, hard cheese, preparing them for eating. Iolaus lifted a cup of wine to his mouth nervously as he worked, treating the food as if it were a project.

But know this, Iolaus. When the frost hardens the earth, we will not see the sun for an age.

Iolaus interrupted, snapping back in frustration at the subtle, building pressure of the conversation. I tire of the summer anyhow, seer! he barked.

Whenever Nikomedes brought up problems with the land, it was soon followed by a plea for help. Iolaus did not want that life anymore. Too many painful memories. Too many friends lost, lost to the land under the dark ground. But he was a warrior. And a warrior always answered the call. Not out of desire, but out of duty. He knew. And it angered him beyond measure.

Nikomedes kept his composure. Cultists of Hera take the seeds from the farmer's very hands. A drakon was rumored to be-

Yes, Iolaus interrupted. I heard of the drakon. Any man wearing a serpent's skin makes for a beast these days, seer.

The cultists, Nikomedes said again.

What other path have they, seer? There is no work to be found, the fertile fields are few and far between, there is no food. They believe the goddess above will save them. They live only for that now, not the field and the seed.

They are rabid, Iolaus. I have seen them march and wail through the forests in the dead of night. It sends shivers through my soul. They will not eat, sleep, nor love. They only follow the path to the end of their lives, and they are dreadful, starving things.

Aye, said Iolaus. All for the gods, or the goddess in this case. My uncle only claimed to see her once, but never his father. He said they haven’t been to this earth in centuries. Specters from some other realm. Maybe not even that. Who knows this? Alas, when desperation plagues the land they are worshipped, just as they always have been.

I have heard the tale.

Iolaus continued preparing the food, munching on the cheese nervously. Arbitrarily he broke the bread into smaller and smaller pieces, almost as if that act would prevent him from ever having to face the reality of the situation. He wished he could prepare the bread and cheese for an eternity, in his little village, sheltered from the chaos of the outside. From the life he once knew. Nikomedes had not even been offered a bite.

The seer looked out at the small stream once more. The water trickled peacefully over the slick rocks. The fisherman rose, satisfied with his day’s catch, and carefully balanced the basket of fish in his hands as he whisked away with the prize.

In my bones, said the seer, I feel the winds changing. And I fear they cannot be stopped."

II

The palace of Eurystheus, King of Argos, was the most aggrandized structure in the city. Most of the municipality’s structures - simple huts, workshops, and just a few halls, were low to the ground and rustic. The pillared hall of the palace stood higher, and was afforded the luxury of polished stones and intricately-worked wood to display its beauty and strength. Open air flowed through the place, as flowing drapes swayed in the gentle breeze. Inside, the floor shined with a radiance, but bore scuffs and scratches from years of gliding feet. The walls were lined with torches that stayed lit at all times, and a few guards, hardened and overbearing in their presence, stood solemnly aside the throne. The old king sat in the simple wooden seat of power, which was speckled with cloudy blue jewels. They were valuable, but their tarnish indicated that they were not of the highest value. The palace itself was grand and beautiful, but not the grandest, nor the most beautiful.

Proceed to the king! one of the overbearing guards bellowed toward a group of kneeling guests.

Some were dressed in rags and simple clothes. Others donned clean, colorful robes, and smelled of sweet spice and fruitful perfumes. Noblemen and peasants,