Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01

by By The Sword

  The bad part was, the ones he did have to fight were too good to be taken for granted.

  Off guard again; he had to take them off guard.

  Keeping those on his right at bay with the Fire, he slapped the first soldier on his left with the Fire's sheath, and nearly paused to watch when the man was lifted off his feet and flew backward a good ten yards.

  Well, he thought, that's a new one on me. The next man ducked under the sheath's stinging loop, but in doing so allowed Hercules to smash him with his shoulder. He flew, too, but not nearly as far and not nearly as well.

  Crisalt didn't move except to broaden his stance.

  Something thudded against Hercules' back, making him break stride and nearly fall. His momentum turned him in a circle, Fire and sheath spinning with him, the latter catching a charging spearman on the hip and tumbling him into a handful of others. They went down with yells and curses Hercules had to admit were, even for soldiers of their ilk, strong enough to burn even Zeus' ears.

  Now Crisalt was directly in front of him, sneering as his dagger appeared in his other hand.

  Hercules didn't stop, didn't slow, didn't bother to smile when he saw doubt flicker in the man's eyes, then the uneasy glance to either side for support that was apparently too far away for immediate help, then the lips moving in a prayer for courage, then the astonished widening eyes as Hercules continued to bear down on him without even bothering to fake changing direction.

  Resigned, Crisalt braced himself.

  Hercules left his feet just as the sword drew back, and Crisalt's panicked ducking didn't help—instead of landing on his chest, Hercules' boot caught him neatly on the forehead, toppling him backward with a grunt, forcing sword and dagger from his hands, expelling the air from his lungs as Hercules landed, swept the others back with the Fire, and ran straight over Crisalt's body as if he were a lumpy carpet.

  Half a minute later he had reached the corrals. The two drunks were gone, and the horses were in a near panic. They raced around the inside perimeter, eyes white and rolling, ears back. They snorted and whickered their agitation, and as he used the Fire to slice through the thick cord holding the gate shut, he spotted foam on the mouths of some.

  The moment he reached for the gate he heard Crisalt's shriek of anger, and the thunderous tramp of many boots heading in his direction.

  All right, he thought; change one, sort of.

  He hastened to the back, prayed briefly for the animals' safety, then drew Hephaestos' sword along the top rail as he trotted down toward the cattle pen.

  A long, too long second passed before the wood became a wall of tall fire; another long second before the horses decided they had had enough. They charged the gate and bulled it open, and immediately began to run in every direction but back.

  The second corral was much larger, and its inhabitants much easier to spook. As soon as the rail caught, the cattle and oxen bolted. It didn't matter which side held a gate. They blasted through as if the fence hadn't been there, heads down, horns out, the thunder of their stampede matching the roar of the dozen score fires.

  Hercules allowed himself a satisfied smile.

  That, he figured, ought to give Zorin's men something to think about.

  What he had to do now was get to the gate, and this diversion should give him sufficient time to set the others in motion. This may even be enough, he thought, but he didn't want Zorin to get away so easily. If he couldn't have the man himself, Hercules wasn't about to leave him the camp.

  "Hercules!"

  It was Crisalt, reeling around the far corner of the corral. From the way his armor was slashed and battered, from the smudges of dirt and smears of blood on his face and bare arms, Hercules knew the man hadn't escaped the entire stampede. As it was, he could barely stand.

  "No," Hercules said as the raider staggered toward him. "Leave it, Crisalt. There's no reward for fighting when you can't even hold your sword."

  Crisalt spat blood to one side. "You made a fool of me, Hercules. I'm not going to let that go."

  A longing glance west toward the gate, a sigh for the man's rigid concept of honor.

  He leaned against the end post and waited while Crisalt, threatening all manner of imaginative muti-lation and dismemberment, stumbled and fell, rose and stumbled and fell again, rose and stumbled and fell sideways against the fence. Had he been taller, he would have hung over the top rail. As it was, he slid headfirst through the gap.

  Hercules blew out a breath and walked over to him, looked down as Crisalt blinked dazedly up.

  "I'll kill you," the man said, wheezing.

  "Crisalt, why don't you go home?"

  Crisalt sat up and frantically slapped the churned earth around him for his sword, or his dagger. ' 'Why should I?"

  "Aren't you tired?"

  "What of it? I still have to kill you."

  "Crisalt."

  Crisalt turned, and widened his eyes in an aw,-come-on,-give-me-a-break look.

  "If you won't go home, then at least get some sleep," Hercules said kindly, and used his fist to help him.

  He figured that was break enough; the alternative was dying.

  "Hey! You there!"

  Hercules didn't bother to check on the voice's owner. He sheathed the Fire and sprinted away, keeping within the darkness that still huddled at the valley wall's base. By the sight and sounds of it, the search for him had intensified in fervor, more a testament to Zorin's hold than to his men's intelligence.

  It wasn't over yet.

  It didn't occur to Hercules that it was rather odd, there not being anyone around the barrels he had spotted earlier. His first thought was that a fair portion of the men were still hunting him, while the others divided their time between trying not to be trampled by runaway horses and cattle, and not getting scorched by all the fires he had started.

  It was too much to hope for that they would all panic and run away.

  Still, as he paused for a breath amid the barrel pyramids, he supposed he ought to be grateful for small favors.

  Or rather, he amended when he saw the figures drifting out of the smoke, brief favors.

  He was surrounded.

  He had no idea how many of them there were, but from their expressions, and the way they brandished their weapons, he had a pretty good idea how angry they were. How murderous they felt. And what they wanted to do to him, as slowly as possible, no matter what Zorin might have ordered.

  "Got him!" one of them cried gleefully.

  Hercules made an elaborate show of ignoring them as they closed in warily. With one foot he tipped over one of the barrels, then stepped on it to prevent it from rolling away. Once done, he unsheathed the Fire.

  The advance halted raggedly as word was passed.

  "You can't get us all, Hercules," someone called from his left.

  "Some of us, though," another answered nervously.

  "But not all," the first one insisted.

  Hercules kept his own manner solemn as he turned slowly to make sure they all saw the Fire. Their expressions told him he was probably not giving them enough credit. What they didn't understand was the barrel beneath his foot, and what that had to do with the price of olives.

  At least not until a nervous voice said, ' 'Hey. Hey, I think..."

  Hercules brought the Fire's tip just shy of the barrel head. "Will it burn, do you think?" He studied both sword and barrel closely. "I mean, it works well with lamps and things, but do you think it will.. . ?"

  The halted advance sagged in places as several raiders more clever than the others recognized the threat.

  "Not to worry," that first soldier said. "It'll just soak into the ground. We won't even get our feet wet."

  Hercules didn't think so. The valley's westward slope, gentle as it was, was sufficient to draw the stream from its source and lead it to the pool. The ground itself, especially around here and around the tents, was packed hard as rock. He didn't believe the barrels' contents would simply puddle when spilled
.

  Of course, there was only one way to find out.

  If he was wrong, he was a dead man; if he was right, he might get a little singed, but he'd live a lot longer.

  "If we rush him," a voice suggested.

  "Well, we're not doing much good just standing around, are we?"

  The horn sounded.

  The gong sounded as if it had finally developed a crack.

  Hercules pushed the barrel ahead of him, kicked it hard, and stove in the side. Oil gushed from the hole, but he was already toppling and smashing as many of the others as he could before the raiders, having had enough, roared and closed in.

  In for a penny, he thought, and touched the Fire to the oil.

  It didn't look like much—a small blue flame at first, but it spread swiftly, grew rapidly, a rushing sweep of flame that soon turned the roar of attack to the roar of extremely disorganized blame and retreat.

  Hercules ran as well. He kept just in front of the onrushing fiery wave, angling sharply to the south as one barrel exploded, sending a brief but spectacular pillar of flame into the sky. Another soon followed, and the flood continued, rushing under those tents that hadn't yet been consumed, seeping into ruts that steered it into more tents, and under wagons, around carts, toward the stream.

  It wasn't long before it seemed that every inch of the valley was afire.

  The chaos was complete.

  No time now for anything but to leave.

  And no time for deception.

  He ran straight toward the valley gate, ignored by everyone he passed. They were too busy trying to figure out how the earth had caught fire, and too busy trying to figure out how, if the earth had caught fire, they weren't going to.

  His next problem was the gate itself, but he figured that after what he had just gone through, that one ought to be fairly simple-It was.

  The gate was wide open.

  He grinned, thinking that more than one raider had hung up his armor for good that night. Even as he approached the exit, he could see a group of them, sacks slung over their backs, racing through toward the plain, followed by a number of horses and one lumbering bull.

  The horn sounded, distant and weak.

  The gong had shut up.

  He slowed a little, pacing himself, the Fire once again sheathed and carried in his right hand. There was no need to wish for light to show him the way— the fire provided plenty, in spite of the rolling clouds of smoke. A glance over his shoulder showed him little else but flame, and dark figures darting from one place to another.

  Zorin, he thought, had probably exploded from enraged frustration. He would undoubtedly have to find a new place, a more secure place, to keep his army together. Once, that is, he had gathered enough men to call it an army.

  He slowed a little more.

  The gate's lintel passed overhead, and his trot slowed again, to a fast walk.

  Without the Fire the raider was nothing more than an ordinary bandit with a thirst for blood and money. Not all that big a problem.

  He willed himself to go on, that he was just thinking again, and not to pay any heed.

  Still.. . Zorin.

  Hercules stopped. He stared in the direction of King Arclin's new city, turned, and stared at the fire framed by the gate's massive beams.

  No, he told himself sternly, one hand coiling into a fist; you've done what you said you would do. You don't have to do anything else. You really don't.

  No one else left the encampment as he watched.

  You don't, you know, that silent voice persisted; really, no kidding, you don't have to do this.

  "Hermes," he said loudly.

  A minute late he snapped, ' 'Hermes, get down here, I know you can hear me."

  It didn't take much longer before he heard the flutter of wings, and the complaint that a messenger wasn't supposed to be on call twenty-four hours a day, and who in the gods' name had made that mess in there?

  Hercules held out the Fire. ' 'Take this to Hephaestos."

  The ground shook as if a great beast walked beneath it. Sparks flared into the night from the valley, and he sensed a light rolling motion beneath his feet.

  "Take it. Quickly."

  Hermes beamed. "I knew you could do it. Of course, you set fire to half a mountain, but I don't think he'll mind. Boy, are you a mess."

  For the first time since this episode had begun Hercules took stock of himself—his clothes were singed, and smoking a bit around the edges, his hair smelled of smoke, his skin felt brittle and cracked, and every muscle in his body complained that it had been wrenched out of place.

  "Just take the Fire back," he said impatiently. "With my compliments."

  A tall man stood in the gate, hands on his hips, flames writhing behind him.

  The ground trembled.

  "He's done," Hermes suggested, following Hercules' gaze. "He really is, I think."

  Hercules shook his head. ' 'Not yet. He still has men who are foolish enough to follow him. If he doesn't come to an agreement with Arclin, he'll go somewhere else, and nothing will have changed."

  Hermes shook the sword. "But he doesn't have the Fire."

  "A man like that, he'll find something else."

  "So...?"

  "So take it away, Hermes. Make Hephaestos happy, keep the lid on, and I'll see you soon." When the sword left his hand, he added, "And don't stop along the way. There is no time."

  There was no response but the renewed fluttering of wings.

  Hercules walked back toward the gate, where Zorin waited in the fire.

  • • •

  "You haven't won, you know," Zorin said as Hercules approached. "I'll clean up, get more men, and the first thing I'll do is come after you."

  Hercules felt the fire's heat on his face, but the light was still too bright behind the raider for him to see his eyes.

  "You've no magic now, Hercules," Zorin jeered. "You're no match for someone who knows how to fight-Ten yards separated them when Hercules finally stopped, wishing it hadn't had to come to this.

  A horse bolted around Zorin and galloped into the night; the man didn't flinch. In his right hand he held a sword, in his left a knotted length of wide rawhide—embedded in each of the knots was a solid metal ball.

  "Come and get it," Zorin taunted, smiling to show his teeth. "I have work to do."

  He whipped the air lazily with the rawhide and the sword, crossing them over each other, drawing them to his side, crossing them again.

  Hercules nodded toward the blaze and the smoke. "You're alone, Zorin."

  Zorin scowled. "I don't need them."

  The rawhide lashed out, longer than Hercules had thought; he also didn't much care for the whistling sound it made.

  "You're not going to win, you know."

  Zorin laughed heartily.

  "When was the last time you faced someone who wasn't in chains, Zorin? Who wasn't already beaten?

  Who had something to fight for?"

  Zorin didn't answer; he only moved forward.

  The sword reflected the fire; the rawhide keened through the air.

  "It's pretty sad, isn't it, when you can't even fight your own battles. When you have to hide behind the beaten backs of a hundred men in arms."

  Zorin came on, and now Hercules could see his face—it had been severely burned, and was mottled with livid red splotches. Some of his beard was gone, and both his eyebrows. There was filth in his hair.

  Hercules rolled his shoulders to keep them loose. "Are you sure you don't want any help?"

  "I don't need help," the man snapped.

  Sword and rawhide, crossing each other.

  "Suit yourself."

  The white smile again: "I always do."

  Yet Hercules had already seen it, the fury that made the man's limbs a little stiff, the pain that prevented him from complete concentration . . . and the doubt. No one had challenged him like this before, and no one, especially not just one man, had strewn such havoc as would defeat a small a
rmy.

  That doubt was Hercules' most important ally.

  He watched it all build without moving an inch, hoping his face didn't betray his own nervousness.

  Suddenly Zorin boiled over, and charged with an enraged scream.

  Hercules easily sidestepped the blind run, tucking away from the reach of the sword and, at the same time, slapping the man's back. Deliberately lightly. Just enough to make him stumble as he whirled to charge again.

  This time Hercules took the charge on the rawhide side, using his arm guard to take the brunt of the vicious lash, causing it to wrap around his forearm. The metal balls sparked their own brand of fire, but he yanked the rawhide free of Zorin's grasp, quickly unwrapped it, and tossed it aside disdainfully.

  "A mild diversion," Zorin said, panting slightly, swaying to keep on his feet.

  "Yes, you are," Hercules told him.

  Zorin's eyes widened, his lips drew back, and he came at Hercules in a rush, sword slashing wildly, the tip slicing Hercules at the top of his left arm. Hercules grunted at the pain, instantly buried it, and faced the next rush, this one somewhat less fast, somewhat less strong. The night had tired them both, but Hercules wasn't encumbered by the weight of sword or armor.

  Or of mindless fury.

  He sidestepped again, and tapped the back of Zorin's skull. Hard enough, this time, to send him sprawling on hands and knees.

  But he kept hold of the sword.

  "Stand still!" Zorin demanded as he stood.

  Hercules shook his head. "I don't think so."

  But he did.

  Zorin charged, the sword only barely held at his waist, and Hercules feinted a sidestep to draw the tip away, then closed with him, hard, slapping the weapon free while wrapping his arms around him. Zorin's momentum took them to the ground, where his frustration gave him more strength than Hercules would have credited him with. They rolled and grappled down the path, Hercules squeezing while Zorin pounded mercilessly on his back and tried to tear out his throat with his teeth.

  Smashing into a large bush finally stopped and separated them.

  Zorin got to his feet first and aimed a vicious kick at Hercules' stomach. Hercules rolled, catching the boot on his hip, wincing as he sat up on his heels just as another kick came at his face.