Argamus's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Argamus stood at the edge of the River Styx, holding his mother's favorite flower. His father had thrown her shade into the deepest pit of the Underworld, and Argamus meant to drag her out. He was the son of Hades, prince of this dead kingdom, and he had won every fight he ever entered. Winning this one meant crossing a thousand cells of darkness first. He turned the white flower in his fingers. Its yellow center caught the pale light off the river. For a moment he smiled, remembering her hands in a garden that no longer existed. Then Zeus's words came back. Save my mother. Save the Underworld. The smile went cold. His fist closed. He crushed the bloom and let the pieces fall into the black water. He started toward the pits. Two guards blocked the stairway down. Their voices carried on the still air. "No one goes to the deep cells," one said. "Hades gave the order himself." Argamus stepped into the torchlight. "Then Hades can explain why I broke it." The first guard swung. Argamus ducked and drove his shoulder into the man's chest. The guard hit the wall and dropped. The second lunged with a spear. Argamus caught the shaft, twisted, and snapped it. He put the guard down with one blow to the jaw. Both lay still. He took their torch and went down. The stairs ended at a corridor of iron doors. He walked. The corridor split, then split again. Each turn looked like the last. Cold doors on both sides, numbered in a language he half remembered. He counted cells past a hundred and lost the count. The deeper he went, the darker it grew, and his torch shrank the world to a small ring of light. He stopped at a fork with four paths. He had no map. He did not know which way held his mother. He could walk these halls until he starved, and shades did not starve, so he could walk them forever. The truth landed hard. He had fought his way in and gained nothing. A thousand cells, and every one a wrong guess. Then a hoarse voice came from behind the nearest door. "You carry Persephone's blood. I smell it." Argamus raised the torch. Through a slot in the iron, two old eyes watched him. The face was ancient, scarred, buried down here long enough to be forgotten. "Who are you?" Argamus said. "A prisoner your father made in the Great War. Olympus thinks I am dead." The old Titan pressed closer to the slot. "I have listened to these halls for a hundred years. I know every turn. I know which pit holds the queen." Argamus gripped the bars. "Tell me the way." "Open this door first," the Titan said, "and I will walk you there myself." Argamus looked at the lock. Freeing the one thing his father buried deepest. He set his hand against the iron.