Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01

by By The Sword

  Nikos blinked. "How did you do that? There's no blade."

  "More god stuff," Hermes answered. "I like your cloak, by the way. Make it yourself?"

  Nikos drew the fur cloak around his shoulders. "Actually, Lydia made it. She's very good at things like that." His voice softened. "It's only been a couple of days, you know, but I miss her already."

  Hercules ate silently, wondering why he never thought of bringing a pack with him. The night air had chilled considerably, and although the fire was warm, he couldn't help feeling a chill on the back of his neck.

  He suspected, however, that it had nothing to do with the temperature.

  Once they declared themselves satisfied, Hermes smiled at Nikos and suggested that the innkeeper might want to catch a good night's sleep.

  "Not tired," Nikos said. "This is too exciting."

  "Oh, I don't know." The caduceus passed over the man's head. "You look exhausted to me."

  Seconds later Nikos was on his back, a mound of leaves for a pillow, snoring softly.

  "A good man," the god said.

  "He is," Hercules agreed. "A very good man, who doesn't deserve any of this."

  An owl questioned in the dark, and was answered by the bark of something passing the grove.

  "Zorin's Fire," Hercules said at last. "It's the sword, isn't it? Hephaestos' stolen sword."

  Hermes nodded. "I figured you would figure that out soon enough."

  "But you said there's more."

  "I did."

  "And I wouldn't like it."

  "You won't."

  Hercules poked a stick at the fire, sending sparks spinning above their heads. "Do I have to guess?"

  "Only if you want to." Hermes tried to smile. "It'd be more fun, actually. Heavy news on a heavy stomach is bad for your constitution."

  "My constitution," Hercules said in a near growl, "is fine."

  "Yes. I suppose it would be." Hermes settled himself across the pit, his face rippling with the reflection of the flames. "The way he told it to me, Hephaestos was out shopping or something with Aphrodite, see, when a band of thieves discovered his new home. You know, the summer one I told you about? They also found the sword, swiped it, and brought it back to Zorin." He sniffed. "Well, two of them did, anyway.

  The others were caught by Hephaestos' men and ..." He made a face. "Well, let's just say Hephaestos won't need to look for fuel for a while."

  Hercules didn't ask. He would have, but he didn't think his stomach could take it. His imagination had already done most of the work, and it raised gooseflesh along his arms.

  "Anyway, these two gave the Fire to Zorin. Which you already know. What you don't know is what Hephaestos told me when I told him what you told me to tell him." He inhaled slowly. "He told me to tell you that if he doesn't have his sword back in four days, he's going to blow his top."

  Hercules didn't have to ask about that one, either. He had already seen a handful of examples of what happened when Hephaestos blew his top. Mountains tended to disintegrate, lava tended to flow, and Hades tended to have a whole lot more people to deal with that he hadn't counted on during the normal course of collecting the spirits of the dead.

  "Which top?" he asked.

  ' 'You know the mountains just north of King Arclin's new palace?"

  Hercules' eyes widened. "What? You mean he's under one of those?"

  Hermes nodded.

  "But... but if he ..." Hercules slapped his imagination a good one before it could complete the sequence of images it was bent on conjuring. "But how can 1 find Zorin, get the sword, and get it back to Hephaestos in four days?"

  "Oh, that's easy. Have you seen those mountains up close?"

  Hercules shook his head.

  "There's a heavily guarded valley between them. Zorin's army camps there."

  Hercules leaned away and stared at his half brother, leaned closer, and said, "If..." He shook his head, closed his eyes, opened his eyes, and said, "If Hephaestos is right next to the camp, why doesn't he get the sword himself?'

  "I asked him that." "And he said?"

  "He said to remind you about the day of the pilgrims."

  Hercules usually enjoyed visiting Hephaestos' forge. He wasn't all that thrilled about the constant heat, and the casual way Hephaestos handled a hammer and the fire made him nervous. But there was no doubt that the god was an artist. There was nothing he couldn't create out of iron and fire; and what he created, while not always magical, was always beautiful, always perfect.

  One afternoon, Aphrodite had joined them, suggesting they come to the surface with her to enjoy the lovely spring day and get away from work for a while. Although Hephaestos, as was his manner, grumbled and complained and balked, there was nothing he wouldn't do for his wife. When they arrived, a group of pilgrims happened to pass, and while they were taken by the exquisite beauty of Hephaestos'

  wife, they were, to a man, terrified by Hephaestos himself.

  It was the artisan god's curse that he was not only lame, he was ugly as well.

  Hercules had never really noticed it; his half brother was, after all, his brother. In punishment for a past sin, Aphrodite had been given to Hephaestos as a wife, and ironically, they had turned out to be more devoted to each other than any other couple Hercules had ever known.

  But the reaction of the pilgrims had hurt the virtuoso blacksmith deeply, so much so that he had vowed never to return to the land of Man again.

  "If I did," he had said, "and even one of them laughs, I'd have to kill them all."

  He hadn't been kidding.

  And there was no doubt that Zorin's warriors were not the type to be sensitive to a man's feelings.

  Or a god's.

  "Great," Hercules muttered. "Oh ... great."

  Hephaestos comes out, someone laughs, and he blows everything up; Hephaestos doesn't come out, he doesn't get his sword back, and he blows everything up.

  "Great. Just... great."

  On the one hand, at least it won't take four days to reach the raider valley; on the other, Hercules was hardly the type to blend in with such a band. For one thing, he wasn't dressed for it. It wouldn't take them long to spot him, and despite his strength and agility, taking on an entire army was not a pleasant prospect.

  He was a son of Zeus, but he definitely wasn't immortal.

  "I hate quandaries," Hermes said blandly, "don't you?"

  Hercules stared at the flames, at the images that flowed within them, letting his mind's eye trace paths only he could see. None of them seemed to lead to success.

  What might have been a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

  Maybe...

  Sparks rose silently. A twig snapped almost noiselessly.

  Without lifting his head, he looked up at Hermes. "I need to get into that palace."

  "What?"

  "I need to get arrested."

  Hermes opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, but immediately closed it when the obvious answer occurred to him.

  "It's dangerous," he said.

  "So's a volcano."

  "You could be killed outright."

  "Maybe not."

  "That shrimp of a king already knows what you look like. You're not going to fool him."

  "I don't have to fool him, just a couple of guards. Just long enough for me to break those men out and have them lead me into the camp."

  "What makes you think they'll do it?"

  Hercules made a fist, and smiled without amusement.

  Hermes shrugged one shoulder. "It could work. But how will you get into—'' He stopped. He stared.

  He grabbed the caduceus, when it made a desperate attempt to fly away. "No. Absolutely not."

  "Why not?"

  "Carry you? Carry you"? Are you out of your little demigod mind?"

  The caduceus made another break for it, but Hermes was too quick.

  Hercules laughed silently. "It's not that far, don't get so excited. Short hops so we can get there while it's still d
ark. Up and over the wall, and leave the rest to me."

  Hermes shook his head. "Get serious, Hercules. 1 carry messages, not people. It's impossible. I'm sorry, but—" He frowned and looked off into the dark. "Did you hear that?"

  "It's got to work, Hermes. It's the only way."

  "Hush." The messenger rose into the air, hovered for a moment as he frowned, and suddenly darted away.

  Hercules scowled, and jabbed the stick angrily at the fire. All right, so it wasn't the most brilliant plan in the world. All right, so maybe it was fundamentally flawed. But it was either that or have this part of the world buried in fire and ash, and its people nothing more than a memory.

  His memory.

  Which he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

  Well, if Hermes wouldn't help him, he would have to do it himself.

  He stood, looked fondly at the sleeping Nikos, and hoped that a good easy run would get him close enough to King Arclin's city before dawn. After that, he'd have to—

  He jumped when something landed hard in the dark beyond the fire, yelped in pain, and yelped again when something smacked it.

  "Hercules."

  It was Hermes.

  "Hercules, come here."

  Cautiously Hercules walked around the pit, fingers flexing, peering into the far reaches of the firelight.

  He stopped when he saw his brother hovering over a bundle on the ground.

  "I hope you're happy," Hermes complained. "I think I've strained my back."

  The bundle groaned and shifted.

  When it sat up, Hercules didn't know what to say, and so said, "Hello, Theo. Your horns are dented."

  King Arclin II sat on his throne and meditated.

  He meditated on the throne itself, which was nice enough in its way, but only temporary until his artisans were finished the big gold one with the etchings and bas-reliefs and fancy scrollwork and jewels.

  He meditated on meeting the famous Hercules that afternoon, and hoped the big ox wasn't going to try anything stupid. He knew the man suspected all was not as it appeared in the kingdom. He also knew the man would probably have to die before the Grand Scheme had all its parts in place. It didn't bother him.

  People died. It was the way of life.

  He meditated on the throne again, just long enough to order someone to bring him a cushion because this wood was getting pretty hard on his royal buttocks.

  He meditated on the Grand Scheme. It wasn't terribly elaborate, and, in fact, hadn't been grand, or even a scheme, for that matter, until Zorin had let him know of a certain recent acquisition, which, unless the king was amenable to plans and schemes, would make sure the king wouldn't be king for much longer.

  But the king, being the king, wasn't as stupid as some thought he was because of his height. Which, he insisted, wasn't so much short as it was compact and chock full with potential.

  He went along with Zorin's plan because it suited him. And because it had done wonders for the trea-sury.

  The plan, however, became a scheme, and a grand one at that, while Zorin was off on some filthy little battlefield, getting muddy and bloody and all the rest of the stuff that comes with being on a battlefield.

  Arclin's battlefield, however, was the battlefield of the mind.

  He had one; Zorin had one, too, but Zorin's mind was not as agile or twisted or clever as his.

  Why, just this evening, as word of Drethic's acceptance of his sovereignty spread—with a little help from the king's runners—two more not inconsiderable communities had offered to enter into negotiation for voluntary assimilation. And one worried ruler had threatened him with dire consequences should he accept those offers.

  Arclin wasn't worried.

  The ruler had a pretty fair army.

  Arclin, however, had Zorin and Zorin's Fire.

  Which, when the Grand Scheme was nearly done, would then be known as Arclin's Fire.

  He laughed.

  Loudly.

  His retinue laughed with him. Loudly.

  Until the captain of the guard, quivering with fear, entered the throne room, dropped on his knees, and announced that the raider prisoners taken only this day had escaped from their inescapable confines.

  "They... what?" Arclin boomed, which was something he had been practicing practically forever, since usually, when he got mad, he squeaked.

  "Escaped, sire," the captain said, wincing in anticipated pain.

  "Have you sent a patrol after them?"

  "Yes, sire. But they've been gone quite a while."

  Angrily Arclin rose from the throne, whose substantial dais allowed him to tower over the rest of the court. "Do you anticipate success, Captain?"

  " My men will do their best," the man replied simply, and bravely.

  Arclin glared.

  The court glared.

  The captain quailed.

  Arclin thought the man was overdoing it a little, but no one else seemed to notice. He sighed resignedly to be sure the others understood that the weight of ruling lay heavily upon his shoulders, sank back onto his throne, and said, "Very well, Captain. All we can ask in these troubled times is that our brave men in uniform do their level best. As soon as you have word, come to me again."

  The captain rose, bowed, and backed out of the room.

  Arclin waited precisely twenty-six seconds before he looked around and said, "So. Is it just me, or is it chilly in here?"

  Zorin paced his tent, hands clasped behind his back, gaze on the ground.

  By this time, Theo and his men would have been freed from the king's jail. Given the distance, he didn't expect them back in camp until at least noon tomorrow. Yet he couldn't help wishing he knew now what they brought with them—the message he had been waiting for, or the message he dreaded.

  Despite the late hour, he could hear others moving around outside. They were restless. They hadn't really been on the road since Drethic had been threatened and taken without so much as a single punch.

  Disappointment had lowered their morale. Fighting was what they did, and they did it well. They always took surrender badly.

  "You're going to wear yourself out," Crisalt observed with a grin. He sat on the bottom step of Zorin's dais, legs crossed, hands loosely clasped against his stomach. "Have something to eat."

  "I don't want anything to eat," Zorin snarled. "I want to know."

  "We all want to know," Crisalt answered patiently. "But we can't know until they get here."

  "I know, I know."

  "So sit down. Or go beat someone up. You're driving me nuts."

  Zorin whirled, a hand on the hilt of his sword, taking no satisfaction in the fleeting alarm that passed over his lieutenant's face. Unfortunately, he was right. But it didn't stop him from pacing. That was the only thing that kept him from going outside and beating someone up. That was even worse for morale than not fighting.

  Crisalt cleared his throat. ' 'There is good news, you know."

  Zorin stopped.

  "Hercules and his innkeeper friend are on their way back to Markan."

  Zorin shook his head.

  "What? You don't think that's good news? That Hercules is gone?"

  "It only delays the inevitable, Crisalt."

  "Yes, but why ask for more trouble? You'll get him sooner or later. In this case, if I may say so, later is probably better."

  Again Zorin knew his lieutenant was right, but it didn't make him feel any better. For his plan to work, for him to continue to work with that miserable little ant of a king until he chose the time to end the alli-ance, he required as little opposition as possible.

  Hercules was not little opposition.

  As long as he was out there, nothing would be certain.

  Success would be tenuous at best.

  "What I want to know," Crisalt drawled, "is why Hephaestos hasn't come for his toy."

  Zorin's teeth gleamed through the depths of his beard.

  That was easy. What the Armorer of the Gods had created
was not just a toy, as Crisalt had put it. It was a weapon. And the weapons the gods used could be used not only against man, but against each other.

  The gods may be immortal, but when the fire was loose, immortality didn't. .. well, it didn't last forever.

  No; to protect himself he would have someone do his dirty work for him.

  Zorin was convinced that that someone would be Hercules, which was the only reason why he had had a glorified shepherd like Theo attack the village where Hercules had been staying.

  He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and sank wearily onto the nearest fur-covered stool. He drew his sword and watched the fire's reflection on the polished blade. "You know, Crisalt, sometimes 1 wish we were farmers. Nothing to worry about but getting the crops in on time, feeding the cattle, watering the horses, having kids, and fixing the house up now and then."

  Crisalt agreed. "It's a lot simpler, that's for sure."

  "And safer."

  "Oh, yes, much safer."

  Zorin stabbed the ground softly. "A wife."

  "Oh, my, yes. A wife."

  He held the sword up to his face and looked around it to his friend. "But we wouldn't get to kill anyone, would we?"

  Crisalt shook his head.

  "No blood."

  "Nope."

  "No entrails."

  "Nope."

  Zorin grinned. "No fun."

  Crisalt grinned. "Absolutely no fun."

  Zorin stood abruptly. "Okay, you win. Go fetch me someone to beat up. Promise him double rations and triple pay. This waiting is killing me."

  • • •

  Nikos dreamed of an inn filled with customers, all pushing gold into his hands, while Lydia skipped ex-pertly between the tables, flirting with the men, laughing with the women, all the while having no eyes for anyone but him.

  He dreamed of Bestor growing up to be Hercules.

  He dreamed of having more children, and not really caring if they turned into urchins as long as they didn't have his honker of a nose.

  He dreamed of birds flying overhead, their wings soft in the air, touching his cheeks, caressing his brow, flitting across his eyelids until they opened and he saw the underside of the leaves overhead, the firelight, and Hermes, looking down at him.