Free Jason and the Argonauts by Bernard Evslin

here he comes! That’s the king! That’s Amycus!”
    A troop of spearmen were trotting across the field. Following them was an enormous brute of a man who had placed himself between the shafts of an oxcart and was pulling it easily at a half-run. Two oxen trotted alongside. The huge man broke into a gallop as the soldiers divided into two ranks, allowing the oxcart to pass between. The king shouted with laughter and dropped the shafts.
    He stood there clad in a leather clout, seeming about eight feet tall and wide as two men. He was hairy as a bear; we couldn’t see his muscles under the dense pelt, but knew they were there. He raised his hand. One of the spearmen, the largest, was carrying a club instead of a spear—a huge bludgeon carved out of hardwood. He raised his club and smashed it down on his master’s head.
    The club broke cleanly in two. The soldier stood staring at the king, holding the handle. We heard the king laugh and saw him clap the man on the shoulder. The man staggered, straightened smartly, and marched back into the ranks. Amycus raised his arm again. An ox was led toward him. He grasped its horns, hunched his furry shoulders in a curious way, and seemed to be looking deeply into the animal’s eyes.
    Suddenly he struck with his head, butting the ox terrifically between its horns. Now, any horned beast wears a bridge of heavy bone under its hide between the horns that is stronger than the horn itself. The king’s head struck full on this armored brow. For a moment I thought he was trying to break his head on the ox in some sacrificial rite. But it was the ox that fell, blood streaming from its nostrils. The soldiers shouted and beat their shields with their spears.
    “That’s how he finishes them off,” murmured the girl. “With his head. If he doesn’t kill them with his fists, he butts them to death.”
    “Oh, glory, glory,” I heard Pollux whisper. “This is the match I’ve been looking for.”
    “Don’t even think about it!” I cried. “You’ll kill us all!”
    Horrified, I saw the helmets swivel toward us as Pollux’s exultant yell sounded in my ears. I tried to grasp his arm, but he tore away from me and was bounding down the hill, yelling all the way. We followed the madman down the hill. I kept telling myself I could not afford to show fear. So I raised my white staff and walked slowly to where Pollux stood confronting the king.
    Observing Amycus from the hillside, I had seen how big and powerful he was, but wasn’t able to pick out detail. Now, standing close to that head that had hammered down an ox, I couldn’t believe it belonged to a human body. It was totally bald, burnished a rich brown, taut and hard as a bullhide shield. The forehead was a corrugated ridge of bone. His face was meager; the features were huddled beneath that mallet of a brow. The nose was flattened, the eyes deeply pocketed, his mouth a thin pucker. His neck, surprisingly, was long but very thick, as wide as his head; it was one length of muscle, giving that murderous whiplike power to his butting.
    “Amycus, king of Bebrycos,” I intoned loudly and clearly, “I come vested with the sacred office of herald to bear greetings from my lord, Pelius, king of Iolcus, whose herald I am, traveling on embassy extraordinary with this royal expedition to recover the Golden Fleece. The Middle Sea we ply in a ship called the Argo, and have put in here to ask your hospitality, also provisions of food and water, promising you the gratitude of Pelius the Impatient, monarch of Iolcus.”
    “Shut up, runt,” grunted the king. “One more word out of you and I’ll shove that staff where it’ll do the most good. Your friend here says he wants to fight.”
    We heralds, whose business is mostly with kings, are trained to ignore anger and seek to extract some profit from rudeness. I kept smiling, and said smoothly, “Yes, sire, that is the rest of what I have to tell you. Our champion, Pollux, son of Zeus, prince of