The man started but did as he was bid.
The fabric clutched in her hand, Danae turned to Telamon. ‘I need a knife.’ Charon’s blade lay with his body, down in the depths of Tartarus.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, the flame-haired man slipped a slender knife from his belt.
A small gasp escaped from the Missing man’s lips as Danae set about shredding the cloak. She handed Telamon back his blade and gathered the strips of material in her arms, hurrying to the bank of the Acheron. As swiftly as she could, she plunged the fabric into the salt water, then hastened back to Atalanta’s side.
‘This is going to hurt. A lot.’
The sound that Atalanta made as Danae washed the filth from her burns struck through her like a spear. The salt water would double the pain, but it would hopefully stave off infection. Atalanta jerked at each contact with the sodden rag until Danae was forced to ask Telamon to hold her still. Once she’d cleaned the wounds as best she could, Danae removed Atalanta’s charred sandals and wrapped her feet and calves in the remaining wet strips. When it was done, the warrior lay still, her breathing shallow.
Danae wiped her hands on her dress and straightened up. A sea of soot-encrusted faces gazed at her expectantly. She thought of the labyrinth of tunnels she and Orpheus had traversed, and the ravine they flew down to find them. They would never be able to get the Missing out that way.
She looked at Telamon. ‘How did you enter the Underworld?’
‘Lake Lerna. We discovered the entrance back when we slayed the many-headed hydra.’
She nodded, her brow creased. ‘Can we get back out that way?’
‘I’m counting on it. Although we might have to wait for the tide. The entrance is hidden in a sea cave.’
‘All right.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Heracles and Atalanta can ride on Hylas, everyone else will have to go on foot. You lead, I’ll bring up the rear.’
A whistling wail whined across the rocks.
Danae’s heart thudded, but she could see nothing except the inky waters of the Acheron and the rocky banks stretching away into the mist.
Telamon frowned, every muscle tense as he too scoured their surroundings. Then he turned to Danae and nodded. ‘Good plan.’ He eyed her collar. ‘Let’s get that off you.’ He began to pry at the metal. A spark of hope flickered in Danae’s chest. But, after several moments Telamon drew back. ‘There’s no join, no lock. I can’t remove it here.’ He held out his knife once more. ‘You should keep this. Without your powers you might need it.’
Danae accepted the blade, her heart heavy. Then she turned to the Missing. ‘We know a way out, but it is imperative you stick together and stay in a line behind Telamon, here.’ She thought of the creatures she’d seen roaming Erebus; the gorgons, the centaurs, the manticore. ‘We don’t know what other dangers might be out there, and we can’t defend you if you don’t stick together, got it?’
The Missing looked to one another, then nodded.
Danae called Hylas to her, and she and Telamon set about heaving Heracles across his snowy back. The hero was so light. Guilt hollowed her insides as she stared at his gaunt, unconscious face.
When they brought the horse to Atalanta, the warrior grimaced and pushed herself to standing.
‘I’m fine …’ she winced. ‘Don’t need to ride.’
‘For the love of the gods just get on the damned horse,’ said Telamon, offering her his hand. She glowered at him but took it, breath shuddering as she climbed up behind Heracles.
At Danae’s direction, the Missing formed a line behind Telamon, and he led the way towards the River Acheron, Danae, Hylas, Atalanta and Heracles bringing up the rear.
As they walked, Danae glanced back at the stone serpent. A couple of shimmering shades that had survived Typhon’s blaze, only visible by their leather armour, fled over the rock tongue away from Tartarus. She wondered what they would do now their master was dead. Now they were free. If they could even remember what that word meant.
The bedraggled group trudged along the rocky bank of the Acheron, the wreckage of Tartarus smoking in their wake. Danae’s hand rested against Hylas’ flank, the warmth of him anchoring her like a life-thread tether in the void of nothingness. Heracles hung over the horse’s back, his head bobbing with Hylas’ gait. He had not regained consciousness since their escape. Every so often Danae would check he was still breathing. Behind him, Atalanta had grown clammy and pale, her lips clenched tight as she clung to the horse’s mane.
For the most part they walked in silence, the Missing trailing behind Telamon like sheep. The mist had curled back in around them, a breeding ground for the imagination to conjure danger from every angle. It was heartless, but Danae was glad most of them seemed too frightened to speak. Her mind was filled with Charon, replaying the moment the light faded from his crimson eyes.
Danae looked up at Atalanta. ‘How long will he last?’
The warrior was gazing at the ridges in Heracles’ spine. ‘He ran out of that potion six months ago.’ She winced as Hylas flexed his wings, and she was forced to adjust her legs. ‘He kept getting weaker … we thought he was sick.’
Danae’s heart felt heavy as iron.
‘Why did he come down here alone?’
‘Eurystheus. When we returned to Mycenae, we found the king living on a patch of farmland outside the city. While we were aboard theArgo, he was deposed.’
