Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01

by By The Sword

  Zorin's eyes widened. "Hercules!"

  Closer: "I want the Fire."

  Zorin gaped.

  Closer: "I want it now."

  Suddenly Zorin exploded into laughter, leaped from his chair, and vanished around the back.

  In spite of himself, Hercules stopped.

  "You want the Fire?" Zorin yelled. "You want the Fire?"

  And the tent began to glow with a pulsing red light.

  The Fire, in its simplicity, was nothing less than elegant.

  Its blade was half as wide as other swords of its kind, and so highly polished it seemed to take on the color of whatever it was near. Its hilt was solid black, the grip designed as lightning bolts entwined about each other, while the cross guard was formed as a two-headed serpent.

  But the design and reflection did not disguise the fact that it also had two deadly edges, not just one.

  There were no jewels, no gaudy ornamentation, which only served to highlight how exquisite it was, and how deadly.

  The fire-red glow came not from the metal itself, nor from the blade, but from some distant fire drawn to it whenever it was exposed.

  Zorin stood before his chair and held the Fire in front of him, tip aimed at the ceiling. His face gleamed; his eyes were nearly shut. On the seat behind him was a limp leather sheath that shone blackly, as though it had been saturated with expensive oils.

  "You want it?" he asked softly. "You come get it."

  He lowered the tip as he took a step down, and brushed it across the ground.

  A trail of low fire burned along the trail.

  Zorin's smile dared Hercules to make his move.

  "Hephaestos wants it back," Hercules said.

  Zorin shook his head as he stepped to the ground. "He can't have it. It's mine."

  "You're making a mistake, Zorin."

  "Oh no, Hercules, it's you who's made the mistake." The sword slowly, very slowly, parted the air between them. "This is my country here. In this valley. You are the invader. And invaders must die."

  A subterranean rumble raised puffs of dust around the edges of the pit, the edges of the tent.

  Raised voices outside were alarmed, while others sounded angry and urgent.

  Hercules shook his head. "I'm telling you, Zorin, Hephaestos won't stand for it much longer."

  "Then he'll have to come and get it, won't he?"

  Hercules couldn't believe the man's arrogance. Surely he understood what the tremors presaged; surely he couldn't ignore what Hephaestos could do if he were provoked.

  Zorin eyed the Fire lovingly, his free hand caressing the length of the blade without actually touching it. "This is a god's sword. And it's a god killer."

  Hercules held out his right hand. "The Fire, Zo-rin.

  Zorin started to laugh, caught himself, and instead stretched his arm out, bringing the Fire's tip within inches of Hercules' palm.

  The heat was palpable.

  Invisible fire.

  "God killer," Zorin whispered harshly.

  The tip eased forward; Hercules didn't move.

  "I touch you, Hercules, and you're nothing but ash. Ash I will ground into the earth with my heel."

  Something urgently suggested to Hercules that he figure out what to do, do it quickly, and do it right the first time; there was absolutely no room for mistakes. It also suggested that, in order to be able to do all that, he would have to be alive. It further suggested that, to be alive to do all that, it would be much preferable that he wasn't here, in this tent, with that sword, in the first place.

  Hot didn't begin to describe the situation.

  "I will give you a choice," Zorin said expansively, pulling the Fire away, aiming the tip upward again.

  "You can do the cowardly thing and allow me to introduce you to the Fire without opposition. No fuss, no bother. Or, you can allow me to give you a weapon of your own, and we can settle this like the warriors we are. Fuss, bother, and a lot more interesting."

  "That's a choice?" Hercules said.

  "It's the only one you're going to get."

  Hercules listened to the voices beyond the tent; they were louder now, and he had a feeling Crisalt wasn't going to waste time arguing the fine points, as it were, of the Fire versus a regular blade.

  "How about the one where you give me the Fire, I give it back to Hephaestos, and then we discuss what you and King Arclin are trying to do around here."

  Zorin was surprised. "Well. Well, what do you know about that." He shook his head in reluctant admiration. "You have brains as well as muscle."

  Shows what you know, Hercules thought; if I had any brains, I wouldn't be here.

  "Still," the raider said, "it doesn't matter. You won't live long enough to tell anyone anyway."

  "You're sure about that."

  "Oh, yes. Very sure."

  Hercules took a quick step forward, and Zorin, startled, stumbled back, nearly tripping over the first dais step. Once he recovered, seeing that Hercules wasn't about to move again, he sneered, and touched the tip once more to the ground, leaving it there this time, while a column of fire as thin as a blade of grass rose from the earth. It wavered and twisted, and died as soon as the tip was withdrawn.

  If Hercules had wanted proof of how a man like this had been able to subdue towns like Drethic without much fuss, he had it now, and wished he didn't.

  He also saw something else: that if Zorin persisted, it wouldn't simply be a war against men he would have to fight. Hephaestos could create all the volcanoes he wanted, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference to a man like this.

  A madman.

  No; the next war would be against the gods themselves, and the gods would be hard-pressed to win.

  And when they did win, there wouldn't be much left down here to salvage.

  Not much at all.

  You know something? Hercules told himself; you think too damn much.

  "What will it be?" Zorin asked, arrogance in place. "The hero or the coward?"

  Hercules shrugged. "Okay. I'll be the hero. What does that make you?"

  Furious, Zorin reared, the Fire poised over his head, and shouted wordlessly as he brought the sword down in a long deadly arc that passed through the space Hercules' head had occupied just before Hercules threw himself to his left, rolled, and darted around to the far side of the pit. The flames there seemed almost a joke compared with the blazing trail Zorin's sweep left hanging in the air.

  "You can run, but you can't hide."

  "I'm not hiding," Hercules said, shifting accordingly as Zorin moved one way, then the other, trying to force Hercules away from the pit.

  "You're right. You can't."

  He backed up several steps, and drew a small fire circle in the air. Mocking. Promising.

  Hercules braced himself. A man with such pride would not allow this game to continue for very long.

  He knew what the man thought, and knew that if he moved too soon, Zorin would have him; if he moved too late, Zorin would have him.

  What he needed was what he had hoped would have happened minutes ago.

  He watched Zorin's legs, saw them adjust almost imperceptibly, and saw the Fire waver as the raider tensed his arm as well.

  Close, he thought; it's going to be too close,

  "Last chance, Hercules."

  "You talk too much," Hercules told him. "If you're going to jump, jump."

  Zorin blinked.

  Hercules smiled.

  Crisalt burst into the tent, a group of men just behind, yelling alarms of escaped prisoners, warning Zorin to be careful, and bumping into each other when they realized that their leader had the escaped prisoner in his own tent, that the escaped prisoner was lunging toward them, that the escaped prisoner probably wasn't a prisoner anymore when he grabbed one of them and tossed him at their leader.

  Zorin, enraged by the intrusion and caught by it just as he was ready to take Hercules at his word, dodged the flailing raider hastily, and instinctively held up his hand as the so
ldier flew at him.

  The Fire caught the man's shoulder.

  A vivid white light flared and turned red.

  The man didn't even have time to scream.

  Hercules didn't have time to think.

  Following immediately behind the tossed soldier's flight, Hercules ducked his head away from the bright light, and caught Zorin off balance. It was easy to snatch the Fire from his startled grip, a little harder to leap onto the dais and grab the leather sheath, a bit harder still to duck around the fur-covered chair while slipping the sheath onto the blade, and damn near impossible to roll under the tent's edge while lashing out with a boot at Crisalt, who had been the first one to recover.

  Once outside, Hercules paused, grateful for the darkness here, and the chance to catch his breath.

  When Crisalt's hands poked out from under the tent, ready to pull himself behind, Hercules stomped on them, grinned at the outraged yell, and started to run.

  If that was the hard part, this should easy.

  All he had to do was run the length of this valley through a camp of soldiers armed to the teeth and ready to kill him, open a fifteen-foot gate that took four ordinary strong men to move, race across the base of a mountain with an army in full pursuit, and find, in total darkness, the entrance to Hephaestos' forge, and thereby save the world in the process.

  He could use the Fire, of course, but that wouldn't stop archers or spearmen from taking him at a distance.

  Strong he may be, but immortal he wasn't.

  The cries of pursuit echoed off the valley walls.

  A gong was sounded.

  A horn was blown.

  The obvious course would be to follow the stream, but that would take him directly through the main encampment; although the torches were placed at far intervals, they wouldn't protect him now as they had before.

  There was also the valley walls, but he was no climber, and it would take Hermes, and a dozen like him, to haul him up and out.

  And he couldn't let himself forget that this was an army, and Zorin and Crisalt would not let their men run helter-skelter in pursuit. Parties would be organized as fast as orders could be given, and there was no place he could hide that they wouldn't eventually find.

  Which left him ... what?

  The horn still blew, and the gong sounded as if it were being beaten to death.

  He tucked the Fire more snugly under his left arm and vaulted a pile of rags that had nearly tripped him.

  An arrow thudded into the ground where his heel had been, and he swerved sharply, changed direction a second time, and headed toward the north valley wall, hoping to lose himself in the warren of tents.

  Where the soldiers lived.

  Bad idea, he decided, but listening told him that changing direction again would be an even worse one.

  His shoulders tensed as he waited for another arrow before he decided that the archer must have loosed the first one in desperation, without careful aim, and that it had landed where it had by simple luck. Otherwise his back would be bristling right now with other arrows.

  Ahead he could see men moving, their shadows against the tents, darker forms sliding into the streets between them. Luckily, the full raider complement wasn't here; unluckily, those who were here weren't the dregs. If there were any dregs. Which he doubted.

  "Halt!"

  Two men leaped in front of him.

  Hercules didn't stop. He aimed for the one on the right, disconcerting him just enough before charging left instead, bowling the man over before his sword could be used.

  Not good, he thought; this is not good.

  He heard the second man call for reinforcements.

  The gong began to get on his nerves.

  They're too focused.

  Zorin has trained them too well.

  Which suddenly gave him an idea, one he hoped would be the one thing Zorin and Crisalt wouldn't expect.

  Still running north, angling now slightly right, he prayed he wasn't making a mistake.

  Then he drew the Fire.

  Men who live orderly lives hate disruption; it's untidy, and probably an unwanted test from the gods that is, all in all, doomed to fail them from the start.

  Soldiers who live orderly lives hate chaos. It doesn't fit their lifestyle, and it can't be adequately planned for, therefore it can't be much of a factor in their training. Theory, however, seldom works as planned when reality takes over.

  Zorin's initial shock at Hercules' escape with the Fire was undoubtedly long over. Clearly the order to hunt him down had been given; just as clearly, experience would be the soldiers' most potent ally, not to mention their intimate knowledge of the valley and all its cracks, nooks, crannies, and not-so-secret hiding places.

  Time, Hercules decided, to give them something else to think about.

  He ran up to the nearest tent and slashed the Fire across its side wall. A loud sizzling rose with a stream of dense smoke, and he was startled into an oath when, a second later, the entire wall burst into flame as if it had been made from parchment.

  Not bad, Hephaestos, he thought in growing respect for his brother's skill at the forge; not bad at all.

  Too bad the dope couldn't fashion his temper as well.

  He sprinted away and slashed the next tent, grinning at the astonished shouts of alarm as flames coiled brilliantly toward the sky. He skipped the next two as he continued to make his way toward the valley's center, slashed facing tents just as a contingent of spearmen rounded a corner just ahead.

  He froze.

  They froze.

  The tents ignited just as the spearmen charged, scattering them like frightened geese and allowing Hercules to pass among them without having to deliver more than a whack on the temple here and a trip with a boot there.

  He would not use the Fire on them; barbarity like that was left to men like Zorin.

  The gong assumed a new rhythm, one he supposed meant the place was ablaze.

  An understatement.

  But at least it wasn't telling them to hunt him down and kill him, if not worse.

  He did wonder, though, if the man who wielded that damn beater ever got tired.

  He swung sharply left when he came within sight of the shallow stream, had another idea, and forced himself to save it in case he needed something later. Another pair of tents took the Fire's touch before he darted back into the temporary streets, heading west now and letting a long while pass before the Fire spoke again.

  And again.

  Spreading the destruction out was, for now, his best hope of making sure the troops weren't able to gather in any appreciable strength in any one place; especially not the place where he happened to be. As much as Zorin wanted his head—literally—he also could not afford to lose substantial amounts of his supplies, nor would his men want to lose what little they owned. Discipline, even that born of fear, was already wobbly, if the men he passed were any indication. They barely glanced at him now, too busy trying to put out the flames with buckets of water and wet blankets, or racing around with wildly waving arms as if they could scare the flames to death.

  Reaching an open area gave him yet another idea. Low pyramids of barrels were set in its center, and he could smell their contents even at this distance.

  A quick smile, another silent promise to return if necessary, and he raced north again.

  A tent became a torch.

  Two soldiers with solid staffs and soot-smudged faces tried to stop him, but he waved the Fire in their eyes long enough to distract them, then planted one fist against a jaw, another against a cheekbone, and agilely leaped over their sprawled, cursing forms.

  It was almost too easy.

  A tent filled with grain was the next to burn.

  The air roiled with the stench of burning leather, scorched fur, burning cloth and rope and wood.

  Smoke drifted like mist, obscuring vision and here and there gathering into choking pockets of dense fog.

  So far, so good, and he reckoned it was
about time to put the last of his hastily formed plan into motion. He still wasn't sure it would work, but it was the only chance he had to survive. If he didn't do this before the fires were under control, Zorin's men would regroup, and they definitely would not be happy campers.

  Firelight danced darkly on the valley walls; smoke and fire buried the starlight. It was, Hercules thought, a lot like dropping in on Hades for an afternoon, except Hades was a lot more hospitable. And the food was better, too.

  There was no attempt now to hide his destination. He ran straight for it, the Fire at his side, its sheath in his free hand. An abandoned cart had to be veered around, a fallen pile of spears vaulted. A raider knelt near one corner, gagging while tendrils of smoke rose from his back. Another lay prone, half out of an already leveled tent.

  Voices stopped him just shy of his goal, and he crouched in the lee of an untouched tent, watching as Crisalt stood near the edge of a small grassy area, pointing this way and that, directing his men to take up their positions and for the gods' sake, will they please forget about the place burning down around their ears and concentrate? Was that too much to ask?

  He counted seven, including Crisalt. He had no idea if there were more back there in the dark. And because of the fire, there was not only more light, but the dark areas had become darker, easy enough for a whole squad to hide in if that was Crisalt's aim.

  Time, Hercules reminded himself urgently; you have no time, stop thinking and get on with it.

  He rocked back and forth, staring at the raider lieutenant, fixing him in his gaze, isolating him and waiting, counting the precious seconds while his rocking grew a little faster, his breathing a little deeper, until he could stand it no longer and exploded from the shadows with a yell that easily overwhelmed the many voices of the conflagration bellowing around him.

  Crisalt spun around, sword at the ready.

  Hercules saw his lips move, and saw others racing to cut him off. Some were deterred instantly when he dragged the Fire's tip along the ground behind him, spurting flame at his heels; the others came on.

  Crisalt stood his ground.

  The good part about this was, Hercules knew he wouldn't have to fight all of them.