He spoke the words.
The rough stone wall shimmered like a waterfall.
He set his club on the ground by his feet and took a bundle of tightly wrapped dry grass from the leather sack that held his provisions. He coaxed an ember to life, and then touched it to the end of the torch. The resulting flame was paltry in comparison to the mid-afternoon sun’s glare, but it would be more than enough to light his way.
He dared not linger now. He had four more torches in his sack, but they would burn quickly, and he had no desire to face the darkness beyond the gate without a light source. If he could not accomplish his task before a second torch burned out, he would have to turn back.
After retrieving his club and hefting it onto one shoulder, he started forward, stepping into the shimmering wall of rock as easily as one might walk through a heavy fog. The darkness closed upon him. Not even the torch could light his way as he passed through.
A moment later, he saw the flickering light again, and he knew he was now in what some believed was the realm of Hades.
He paused there, holding the torch aloft to orient himself.
The cavern had formed from molten stone, which had cooled and left a hollow lobe-shaped cavity at the center. The perfectly round tunnel led deeper into the interior. If he had any doubts about the volcanic origin of the cave system, the stifling heat and vile sulfurous atmosphere wiped them away.
One more reason not to tarry.
He had taken only a few steps into the tunnel when he heard a low rumble. A growl perhaps. Or the Earth clearing its throat in preparation to vomit a mass of superheated steam and liquefied rock.
He eased the club off his shoulder and raised it high, ready to meet whatever the Underworld decided to throw at him.
He glimpsed movement ahead. With a thunderous war cry, he charged and swung the club one-handed, driving down into the enormous, shadowy mass. There was a loud thunk as wood connected with…something solid. The impact rang through the iron-hard wood of his bludgeon, and buzzed through his forearm. Had he merely struck a large rock? Had the movement been an illusion, caused by the flickering light of his torch?
He jabbed the torch forward at the shape, even as he hauled back the club for another swing.
His first thought was that he had been right to attack, for the shape was most definitely not a rock. His second thought was that he had been foolish to attack, for the beast in front of him was immense beyond comprehension. As big as the elephants that roamed the African plains. No...bigger even than that, and covered in black fur that devoured the light of his guttering torch.
The beast did not move.
His blow had struck true, caving in the thing’s skull, striking with such force that one of its eyes had popped out of its orbit, dangling alongside a canine snout. It would have been a killing blow, even for a creature of such prodigious size, but for two things.
First, the skull he had cracked open like an almond was only one of three the beast possessed. Three heads—each vaguely resembling one of King Eurystheus’s molossus hounds, albeit on a monumental scale—sprouted from a broad-shouldered torso. His club had smitten only the one on the monster’s left. The other two were completely intact. Yet, before he could swing again, he realized the second thing.
The hellhound was already dead.
Or so it appeared.
Because of its enormous size, he had not realized that it was sprawled out on the tunnel floor. Had it been standing, he probably would have been able to walk beneath its belly. He studied the thing, wondering if he should smite the other heads anyway, just to be sure. There seemed to be the faintest flutter of movement at one of its remaining nostrils, but this too might have been a trick of the light. He lowered the club, then jabbed the torch at the beast’s open but unmoving eyes.
No reaction.
The appearance of the hellhound was not completely unexpected. He had fought creatures such as this before, twisted things, Typhon’s creations. Chimeras. This beast was different only because it was not the product of Typhon’s warped imagination, but rather a natural occurrence—if such an animal could be considered natural—spawned from the Well of Monsters, the very thing he sought.
A closer look revealed the truth. The blow from his club was only the latest in a series of grievous injuries the creature had sustained. There were numerous scars on its two remaining heads, burns and gashes that had healed, leaving ugly masses of scar tissue. Some looked recent, only a few days old and barely begun to heal. They told a tale of life in the lightless depths of the Earth, a story of constant struggle with no respite.
He wondered what manner of creature would have dared challenge a behemoth such as this, and then he wondered if that other monster had survived the encounter. Was it still here, somewhere close? Were there others like it?