Herakles and the Twelve Labours: Chapter III: Cold Nights, Comforts and Oaths
It was thus in this foul mood that Herakles departed from Neméa, the city of ruins as it was later to be known. He had found it a dying kingdom and left it with damaged gates and an outraged King and priesthood.
By his side walked the Elf Vendalan, who remained throughout their journey as silent as the grave and as still as the mountain-top on a dry summer day. It was this quality, this ephemeral element that most confused the youth, who might at one time have complained for hours to him about this trait of his. A changed man since several days prior, Herakles kept his peace and simply walked on sullenly.
Neither of them was in any great need to rest and could travel for far longer than most other mortal men, so that they simply carried on doing three days’ worth of walking in under several hours. It was impressive, and might well have won them a great deal of praise were it not for the fact that there were none to take the measure of their journey, or who travelled with them.
It was as night began to fall that Vendalan’s silence began to at last disturb the hitherto silent half-god who came to a halt.
Stopping just as he caught sight of the Dasáchyrós, Herakles could not help but study the woods with open apprehension. He did not much like the notion of travelling into the forest. He had grown up since infancy hearing terrible stories about the sort of beasts that dwelt therein, and of how the Elves who inhabited it were known to kill one and all who attempted to enter the borders of their kingdom.
It was a kingdom they had won in blood, he knew and one that his step-father had long warned him was, “This place has long been drenched in blood, since the eldest of days, long before the fathers of men had ever entered these lands with our great ships and begun to make of them our own. Long before the Dark Queen had ever invaded the lands to the north, the sons’ of Dasáliáos settled these lands and divided them amongst themselves.”
His words wove a spell over the son of Zeus, from the moment they were uttered to the moment when he was later to leave the forest. It was a spell that he was never to truly forget, as he imagined the most violent of ages, long forgotten when Men were newly born and still young in the eyes of the universe. The time of which Vendalan spoke was when the Elves themselves were still youthful and were confronted by the very worst of all demons and forced to do battle for their very survival.
Shaking himself from the distracted stupor the image of the Dark Queen and her terrible hordes rampaging throughout the lands of Pangaea from his mind he was to glance all about them. It was not that he was exactly fearful, but apprehensive for he did not know how far into the shadows Vendalan intended to go. He only knew he did not like or feel entirely at ease with the notion of entering into such darkness, and venturing forth into a village of Elves that detested mortal men.
“Whither are we headed? I did not assent to take thee into the Dasáchyrós woods,” Herakles growled as he came to a sudden halt just outside the forest.
At a later time he would come to regard such woodlands with nary any fright, and with the sort of confidence that came with a thousand journeys into the unknown. Yet at present, he was still little more than a boy of nine and ten years of age; inexperienced and lacking in nerve and self-assuredness that came with age, he had broken the spell of stillness that the Elf had seemed to cast over him.
It was with more than a little amusement that Vendalan regarded him with a sidelong glance, “It is the home of some friends I have made over my many voyages.”
“Friends? This is a forest of death!”
“Not all things are as they seem at first glance, young Herakles,” Vendalan told him quietly, with a crooked grin that did not help soothe the unease of the youth.
Herakles studied the other male with a hard look in his eyes. He could not quite understand how the Elf could find himself so at ease in such a place. The dark history of the forest into which they were bound was one that he wondered if the Elf had ever heard. Somehow he doubted it.
Because Herakles was not certain of what he might find within the forest, he knew only that it was unlikely to be anything pleasant.
It was not long after they first set foot within the boundaries of the forest that they were to come to a halt, with Vendalan remarking amusedly. “It appears that they have at last noticed our presence.”
“What should we do?” Herakles asked of him, dismayed and alarmed at the notion of enemies that he could not see.