The Four Legendary Kingdoms, Page 2

  Over the course of many adventures, he’d seen a lot of weird things.

  He’d re-erected the capstone on the Great Pyramid of Giza during a dazzling solar event.

  He’d seen Stonehenge come alive under the light of a Dark Sun.

  Once, deep inside a Roman salt mine, he’d found the tomb of Jesus Christ . . . with Christ’s body still in it.

  And he had seen himself revealed as one of the five greatest ‘warriors’ of history: an elite group of influential figures—warriors of battle and ideas—made up of himself, Moses, Genghis Khan, Napoleon and Christ.

  But the Underworld? Hell?

  Now he knew he was dreaming.

  The notion of an afterlife was common to societies all over the world. Every civilisation had one, from the Egyptians to the Mayans to Japan and India and, of course, the three Abrahamic religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam.

  In the Western tradition, the afterlife was divided into two places, Heaven and Hell, and the whole concept was infused with a moral element: good people went to Heaven and bad people went to Hell, a frightening realm located beneath the surface of the Earth, a place of fire, brimstone, and punishment for one’s sins during life.

  The afterlife of the Greeks, however, had no such moral element. They called their Hell ‘Tartarus’ and in their myths, the Underworld could actually be accessed by the living, if one could find the entrance. Getting out again, though, was another matter. Only the major Greek heroes—Hercules, Theseus and Odysseus—successfully visited and returned from the Underworld. It was a rite of passage if you were to become a legendary hero.

  And it was the Greeks who had bestowed upon the king of this fiery kingdom the name ‘Hades’.

  Only Hell isn’t an actual place, Jack’s mind protested.

  But then, as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the floodlights illuminating the arena, he began to see the area beyond it, in particular the dark mountain above and behind Hades’s balcony.

  It was astonishing.

  It leapt skyward, a sharp dagger of black rock that rose high into the air. Various shadowy castles, fortresses, elevators and staircases hung from its flanks, all at different levels and all looking decidedly menacing in the reflected glow of the floodlights.

  One broad castle-like structure ringed the mountain at its waist, five hundred feet above the spot where Jack stood. The lights of many windows dotted it.

  The whole mount was oddly similar in shape to the Eiffel Tower: wide at the base but tapering as it rose, at first slowly and then very sharply. Jack couldn’t see what was at the summit—it was too dark up there—but he could make out some kind of netting spreading out from it, netting that blotted out the night sky.

  Hades interrupted his thoughts, his voice booming in the enormous space. ‘You have all been brought here as representatives of the four eternal kingdoms to participate in history’s greatest challenge, the Great Games of the Hydra.’

  Jack glanced at his fellow champions.

  They all looked up at Hades as he spoke. The two minotaurs listened to him with particular attention, their chins raised proudly.

  The man to Jack’s left wore desert combat gear, a Marine Corps helmet and reflective anti-flash glasses.

  He nodded at Jack’s Homer Simpson t-shirt.

  ‘Nice shirt, buddy.’

  ‘If I’d known I was coming to this party,’ Jack said, ‘I would’ve dressed differently.’

  ‘To prevail here,’ Hades boomed, ‘is to ensure that your name resounds throughout the ages. Songs will be sung about you, epics written, as they have of all past champions of these Games. In these hallowed arenas, tunnels and mazes, heroes have been born and legends have been made.

  ‘And if I may say so, even before their vital purpose is realised, these Games are already historic. We have several notable champions participating: no less than three sons of kings are representing their fathers here. This is unprecedented.’

  The crowd behind Hades tittered and pointed. Jack saw three of his fellow competitors nod toward the spectators.

  ‘And how could I forget?’ Hades said. ‘We even have the fifth warrior himself competing.’

  His piercing gaze swung to face Jack.

  Suddenly Jack felt every eye in the arena—competitors’ and spectators’—land on him.

  In his silly t-shirt, jeans and oversized boots, he felt like he was in another dream: the one where you went to school without any clothes on.

  Hades smiled at Jack. ‘My, my. The fifth greatest warrior himself. Never in the history of the Great Games has one of the five warriors participated. This is momentous.’

  Jack was really uncomfortable now. He could feel the accusing glares of his fellow competitors. He wished Hades would shut up about him.

  Hades raised his arms.

  ‘Forty days ago, the Star Chamber—the holiest shrine in my realm—opened for the first time in over three thousand years to welcome the return of the glorious Hydra. Which is why now, in accordance with the ancient laws, we gather to hold our Games. As the lord of this storied realm—one of a long line of lords—it falls to me to be the host and arbiter of these Games. It is a holy duty to preside over the Games and in the performance of that duty, I shall show neither fear nor favour.’

  He turned to the well-to-do audience on the bleachers behind him.

  ‘I cannot be bribed.

  ‘I will not accept entreaties for mercy.

  ‘I will not grant special treatment. Not to the highest-born champion or to the lowliest minotaur.

  ‘I can show neither leniency nor discretion. The rules of the Games are ancient and they are clear. It is my honour to enforce them . . . even if it should mean my own doom. My fellow kings, lords and ladies, distinguished guests and champions. Welcome to my kingdom. Welcome to the Great Games.’

  Jack’s mind was racing, trying desperately to keep up.

  It was bad enough to wake up, groggy and disoriented, in a strange place and have a man in a bull mask charging at you with a knife. Now he was hearing about Hell and Hades, Star Chambers that hadn’t opened for three thousand years, and something called ‘the glorious Hydra’ which was apparently returning from somewhere.

  ‘Now then,’ Hades said, nodding at the pair of minotaurs standing outside two of the cells. ‘I see that two of our champions did not pass the First Challenge, so I must—’

  ‘Wait!’ someone shouted.

  Everyone in the arena, including Hades, spun to face the champion standing immediately to Jack’s right.

  The crowd of spectators on the bleachers fell silent. They glanced at each other in horror. Some looked at Hades with trepidation.

  Jack watched it all closely. So did the Marine to his left.

  The man to his right, the one who had called out, was a tall Asian man with a shaved head and a ramrod-straight stance. He wore an olive-coloured t-shirt, green combat trousers and boots. It wasn’t exactly a fighting outfit. More like something you wore in your barracks.

  And it suddenly occurred to Jack that this man might have been brought here the same way he had—

  ‘My name is Jason Chen,’ the man called in English, ‘and I am a captain in the Taiwanese Army, stationed in Taipei! I am here against my will! I was kidnapped! I wish to be released immediately!’

  The crowd of spectators watched him with open mouths.

  Most of the other champions, Jack saw, now stared forward or downward, trying to ignore the protester.

  The entire arena was silent.

  Hades’s gaze fell on the Taiwanese man.

  ‘I. Beg. Your. Pardon?’ Hades said.

  The Taiwanese captain stuck out his chest. ‘I said, my name is Jason—’

  His head exploded.

  It just popped, splattering outward in a hundred fleshy chunks like a pumpkin loaded wit
h firecrackers.

  Some blood and brain matter hit Jack’s right cheek. The headless corpse collapsed to the dusty ground beside him, blood pouring from the arteries of the neck, forming a foul pool around Jack’s oversized boots.

  Jack snapped to look back up at Hades and saw that a second man had appeared at Hades’s side, stepping out from behind him, an assistant of some sort.

  The ‘assistant’ lowered a small remote that he held in one gloved hand.

  He was a most distinctive-looking man. He looked like some kind of high priest: he wore a long purple robe and was completely bald.

  He also had the bulging eyes of someone with an overactive thyroid gland which, when combined with his bald head, made him look decidedly insect-like.

  Horrified at the grisly explosion of his neighbour’s head, Jack checked to see how the spectators on the bleachers were reacting to it.

  He saw only casual indifference.

  They just sipped their champagne flutes and shook their heads sadly.

  Then it hit Jack and his hand flew to his own head, touching the back of his clean-shaven scalp . . .

  . . . and he felt it.

  A fresh scar, just above the nape of his neck.

  That was why they’d shaved his head.

  They had surgically implanted something into his neck: a small explosive. The same kind of explosive that had just blown off the Taiwanese captain’s head.

  This was how Hades guaranteed obedience.

  Jack scanned the other champions and saw that all of them bore similar scars on their necks, plus one other thing: seared into the deformed skin of each man’s surgical scar was a small yellow gemstone of some kind. But the amber-coloured jewel was in no way modern; it was distinctly old. Touching his own scar, Jack could feel the hard edges of the gemstone embedded in it.

  What have I been thrown into? Jack thought.

  ‘Such a pity,’ Hades said. ‘And a pity for his support team, too.’

  Hades nodded to his assistant and, up near his balcony, just beneath it, some steel shutters opened, revealing four very peculiar train carriages standing on rails inside an open-faced tunnel sunken into the rockface.

  The four carriages looked like the kind of train cars that were once used to transport circus animals: each was fronted by a waist-high fence of plate steel topped with sturdy iron bars. Their roofs were also barred. Jack counted four cells in each carriage, creating a total of sixteen.

  Inside each cell he saw four or five people, all peering down at the arena anxiously.

  Sixteen cells.

  Sixteen champions.

  ‘Kill Captain Chen’s support team, please,’ Hades said simply.

  His bug-eyed assistant raised his remote again and pressed another button on it.

  In response, a torrent of a grey liquid came gushing out of the tunnel’s ceiling above one of the train carriages and poured down powerfully into one of its cells.

  It looked like cement, Jack thought, a kind of semi-liquid conglomerate. And it was clearly hot, too. As it poured into the cell, it issued great clouds of steam.

  And it was also heavy because when it came down it knocked the two men and two women inside the cell off their feet. They fell under the weight of the downward-pouring ooze, screaming as it forced them under.

  Soon the screaming stopped and all that remained in the iron cell—judging by the grey ooze dripping over its waist-high front barrier—was a pool of the steaming liquid.

  Jesus Christ, Jack thought. They’re hostage chambers.

  Hades sighed. ‘As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, two of our champions did not survive the First Challenge. As such, their support teams must also be liquidated.’

  He nodded to his assistant. ‘Monsieur Vacheron. Please kill the support teams of the two who failed the First Challenge.’

  At Hades’s command, the assistant—Vacheron—pressed his remote again—

  —and hot liquid cement was unleashed into two other cells of the train. More screams. More flailing.

  When the occupants of the two cells were dead, Hades turned back to the arena.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘as has always been the case, the deaths of these two champions affords their conquerors the chance to take their places. In the cut and thrust of the Games, there are no social classes. Even the lowliest minotaur can compete against the highest-born champion and pursue the immortality of victory. Please, mark the minotaurs.’

  The two minotaurs standing in the line of champions—the two who had evidently killed the other champions in their cells—stepped forward.

  Gold stripes were painted on their bull helmets, skin and trousers, differentiating them from the regular black-clad minotaurs standing guard around the arena

  As he watched all this in horror and disbelief, a sudden thought struck Jack.

  Sixteen champions and sixteen hostage chambers.

  So who are my hostages?

  ‘Oh, God . . .’ Jack breathed, looking up.

  His last memory was of visiting Pine Gap. He’d gone there with Lily, Alby, Sky Monster, Horus and the dogs.

  And then he saw them and his heart sank.

  Peering out from behind the bars of one of the cells of the hostage train, high above the ancient stadium, were his twenty-year-old daughter, Lily, and her loyal friend, Alby Calvin.

  Behind them was Jack’s long-time pilot, Sky Monster, his bushy beard and wild hair framing his desperately worried eyes. In front of Lily and Alby, peeking over the waist-high wall of their iron cell, presumably standing on their hind legs, were Jack’s dogs, Ash and Roxy.

  ‘Oh, God, no,’ Jack said. ‘This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.’

  Hades made eye contact with every one of the champions arrayed before him on the floor of the arena.

  ‘I hope you are all now aware of what awaits your support teams if you fail in any of the challenges of these Games.’

  He smiled. ‘I will now hand you over to our Master of the Games, my loyal servant, Monsieur Vacheron.’

  The man with the bald head and bulging eyes stepped forward. He gazed at Jack and the other champions in what could only be described as a predatory way.

  His shrill voice echoed loud and clear. ‘Lords and ladies! Esteemed guests! Allow me to present to you the arena for the Second Challenge! Open the pit!’

  CHAMPION PROFILE

  NAME: BRIGHAM, GREGORY JOHN

  AGE: 32

  RANK TO WIN: 1

  REPRESENTING: LAND

  PROFILE:

  Major Brigham is an officer in the British SAS. Exceptionally skilled in hand-to-hand combat, he is also a man of impeccable breeding.

  Educated at Eton. Fast-tracked through the Royal Military College. Distinguished service in Afghanistan and Iraq.

  Son and heir to the Duke of Orkney. Betrothed to the daughter of the Duke of Avalon.

  Ranked 1st out of 16 to win the Games.

  FROM HIS PATRON:

  ‘My house is very proud to have Major Brigham fighting on its behalf. When he wins these Games, his fame shall echo through the ages. He is my son in all but name. I look forward to giving my daughter to him.’

  Orlando, Duke of Avalon,King of Land

  At Vacheron’s words, a colossal mechanism came to life in the arena around Jack.

  With a deep rumbling, two huge flat doors set into the floor of the arena split in the middle and as sand cascaded off their edges, the two doors retracted into the walls.

  An enormous circular pit opened before Jack.

  ‘Oh, man,’ he breathed.

  The pit dropped away in front of him, at least forty feet deep. It had four concentric levels that descended like giant steps, each fashioned in the shape of a trench. Protruding from the outer walls of the four trenches
were large round pipes, each about the size of a man.

  In the exact centre of the pit, ringed by the four trenches, stood a circular steep-sided stone pyramid.

  The pyramid’s peak lay just below Jack, so that it was fully inside the pit. A narrow path wound up its curving flank, rising to its summit where there stood a beautiful altar.

  On that altar was a most magnificent object.

  A glowing crystal sphere.

  It was about the size of a volleyball and it was absolutely gorgeous. It gave off an eerie golden glow.

  At the sight of it, the spectators on the bleachers oohed and aahed.

  Even Jack had to admit it was pretty stunning. It glimmered in the artificial glare of the floodlights, entrancing, mesmerising.

  Encasing the entire pit-and-pyramid was a taut wire-mesh ceiling.

  It looked like a gigantic horizontal spider web. Radiating outward on eight steel arms, it was made of hundreds of fishing line–like wires.

  Its function was clear: it allowed Hades and his guests to see down into the pit while at the same time the competitors could not escape from it. Small gates cut into the wire yawned open directly in front of Jack and the fifteen other champions.

  There was one final feature of the pit that caught Jack’s gaze: the exit.

  Directly above the crystal sphere at the summit of the pyramid was a metal crane arm that hung from the wireframe ceiling. If you crawled across the crane arm, over the width of the broad pit, you arrived at what appeared to be the pit’s only exit.

  When he spoke, Vacheron addressed the guests on the royal stage rather than the assembled champions.

  ‘The Second Challenge for our heroes is a simple water maze. At its centre is one of the nine Golden Spheres of the Ancients. The champion to exit the water maze with the Golden Sphere in his possession wins the challenge and gets the customary reward.’

  Straightforward enough, Jack thought. Except for the fact that he saw no water anywhere down there. And what was the ‘customary reward’?

  ‘They will have to make haste, however,’ Vacheron added, ‘for the last champion to leave the pit will be rewarded with death.’