Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01 (13 page)

A slight tremor took the valley floor as he was pushed toward his temporary jail, but no one took any visible notice. Not even the horses seemed upset.

When he asked about Zorin, no one responded.

Midday came and went. No attempt had been made to feed him or give him water.

Outside he could hear two guards complaining, gossiping, joking with those who passed and wanted to know if it was really Hercules inside and was he as fearsome as legend told it.

Evidently not, from the scornful laughter he also heard.

Eavesdropping also told him the camp was seldom at full strength. Smaller bands of raiders were constantly on the move, their size dependent on their current target. Activity had been more frequent over the past two months, and there were many objections to the lack of rest time between missions. Even now parties were out, leaving the area more than half empty.

Finally he shifted, tensing against the anticipated pain in his head. When it failed to happen, he wrig-gled into a sitting position, his back against a bundle of furs, his legs outstretched.

By this time he had become attuned to the noise and rhythm of the camp. Aside from the guards, he could hear men marching, the distant lowing of cattle, the telltale creak of carts and wagons, the clash of swords and other weapons in practice sessions.

By midafternoon he had taken to calling to the guards every ten or fifteen minutes, demanding something to eat, something to drink. They ignored him as long as they could, then popped in one at a time to threaten him with scowls and staffs, swords and daggers; he noticed, however, that not one of them came within reach of his legs.

Small satisfaction, but he took it, because he knew Zorin was trying to wear him down. Letting him wait. Letting him suffer. Hoping he'd be more amenable when their meeting finally occurred.

It was no surprise, then, when he at last had a visitor, long after daylight had been replaced by the uneven glow of torches and pit fires.

The visitor was a man of medium height, with a broad chest, brawny arms and legs, his hair and beard a deep disturbing red. He wore boots laced up to his knees, heavy leather pants, and an open leather vest.

He carried no weapon that Hercules could see.

He did, however, bring a small jug of water and a plate of bread and meat chunks. These he set at Hercules' feet before sitting cross-legged on the ground, his back to the entrance.

"I think you must be hungry," he said in a voice edged with gravel.

"You must think I'm a magician," Hercules answered with a smile, "if you expect me to eat that like this." He rocked to underscore the bindings of his arms.

"Crisalt," the man said by way of introduction. "And you must be Hercules."

"I'm still not a magician."

Without turning around, Crisalt barked an order, and an extremely nervous guard scuttled in, hesitated, then reached behind Hercules and cut the rope. Hercules thanked him, unsettling the guard even more, and rubbed the life back into his wrists and forearms. As he did so, he saw the sword the guard placed in Crisalt's lap as he left.

Still smiling, he leaned forward quickly to take the jug and plate, holding back a laugh when Crisalt's hand instantly covered the hilt.

The water was warm, the meat tough; he had no complaints.

Unless, he thought suddenly, it's poisoned.

"You don't have anything to worry about," Crisalt told him with mild amusement. "Zorin is much more direct."

Hercules ate, drank, examined the man who sat before him. Unlike poor Theo, this one was a true warrior. Although the light in the tent had begun to dim, he could see along the man's arms, and on his face and neck the tiny pocks and scars of more than a few battles. Although he was heavy, he was probably also quite quick.

"So when do I get to see Zorin?"

"In good time. He wants to know why you're here."

Hercules shrugged, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth. "I heard he wanted to see me."

Crisalt frowned his suspicion. "Just like that?"

' 'Why not?' He finished the meat, and mopped up the last of the gravy with the last of the bread. "1

understand he's a pretty good leader."

"Oh. And I suppose you want to join him?"

"Oh, no," Hercules said. "Oh, no."

It was Hercules' turn to be amused as he watched Crisalt try to unravel the puzzle, running through all the possibilities, the dangers, the threats, and coming up empty. He was a direct man, like most soldiers, and when something didn't make any sense, it was considered treacherous ground.

Hercules wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him know he was right.

Another tremor, this one not strong enough to raise dust or stir a feather.

It was in the bones, and Hercules knew Hephaestos was growing increasingly impatient.

There were three days left in the ultimatum; he doubted the armorer would wait even that long.

Crisalt snapped another order over his shoulder, and this time five men entered the tent, each gawking at Hercules, each doing his best to hide behind the other without actually moving.

"You're finished," Crisalt pointed out.

Hercules agreed that he was, and accommodated the guards by putting his arms behind his back and half turning so they could retie him without having to get too close. It took them so long Crisalt had to threaten several disgustingly effective punishments if they didn't hurry up.

They did, and left so fast Hercules felt the breeze.

"Most men are cowards," Crisalt said with a sneer at the guards' backs. "They need strong men to lead them into courage."

"Like Zorin?"

"Exactly."

"And maybe King Arclin?"

"The man is a pest, nothing more."

Lie, Hercules thought.

"If it wasn't for those men of his, we'd have the whole country by now."

Lie, Hercules thought.

Crisalt reached into his vest and pulled out a small dagger, its hilt carved from bone. He used it to pick at a scab on his wrist. "So tell me again, Hercules— why are you here?"

"To see Zorin."

"But not to join him."

"No."

Crisalt smiled at the drop of blood he had pricked from his skin. "To kill him?"

"With an entire army around? I'm not that stupid."

Oh, really?
a silent voice asked;
so how come you're tied up again? How come you walked in here
without even a plan? Give me a minute, I'll think of another word for
stupid.

"I don't understand," Crisalt said, lifting his wrist to lick off the blood.

"You don't have to," Hercules answered politely. "Only Zorin does. No offense."

"Oh, none taken, Hercules, none taken." He put the dagger away, dropped his hand over the sword.

"But until you tell me why you want to see Zorin, I'm afraid you'll have to stay here."

"A waiting game? Who breaks first?"

Crisalt stared. "Zorin doesn't play games. You'd better understand that. He doesn't play games."

Hercules leaned back against the furs and drew his knees up. "Whatever you say."

Oh good,
the silent voice said as Crisalt rose and tapped the sword against his palm;
taunt the man, why
not, make him lose his temper. You call this a plan ?

Hercules kept his expression neutral, not looking at the sword, only at the man's face.

Finally Crisalt snarled wordlessly and stomped out, loudly ordering the guards to cut Hercules' throat if he so much as moved a single muscle.

Hercules waited.

Crisalt returned, his face nearly as red as his beard. "I'll tell you something, Hercules. Zorin won't play games with the likes of you."

"You already said that," Hercules reminded him mildly.

Crisalt took a step forward, glared, and stomped out again, this time ordering the guards to cut him into little pieces if he even so much as blinked a single eye.

Hercules waited.

Crisalt returned, sword drawn and trembling with his anger. "I'll give you a hint. You'll wish Zorin had killed you straight off before he's done with you."

Hercules remembered the feel of Theo's blood on his hand, the sight of Markan's dead in the square.

Still he said nothing. He had pushed this man as far as he dared, and pushed no more.

When Crisalt left the third time, no orders were given, although he did hear one guard yelp.

A minute later he inhaled slowly and released the tension with his breath. And he whispered, "1 don't think so, friend. I really don't think so."

The captain of the guard stood outside the throne room and dusted various parts of his armor, took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, fussed with his hair, and closed his eyes in brief prayer. He hoped he looked all right. It wouldn't do for a man of his position to spend the last moments of his life looking like something dragged behind a jackass through a pigsty. And make no mistake about it, these were indeed the last moments of his life. When King Arclin heard what he had to report, there was no question he would be sent straight to the underworld on the fastest available chariot. He wouldn't even have to bother packing.

The door opened slowly.

He drew himself up, muttered another prayer, and marched into the room, his footsteps echoing faintly.

Aside from his king, he was the only one there. And only a single torch burned, just to the left of throne.

"Well?" the king demanded.

The captain told him.

Arclin fumed. "All of them?"

The captain of the guard shook his head. "No, sire. One survives intact. Another survives, but it appears as if he will never be the same."

The king scowled, leaned back on the throne, and passed a thoughtful hand over his chin. "You have no doubt who did this to your men?"

"None, sire." The captain began to hope; just a little. ' 'We found the body of one of the, uh, escaped prisoners nearby. He must have gotten separated from his mates during their flight from the city."

"But he wasn't alone?"

' 'I doubt it, sire. These were four good men, among the best we had. Handpicked, specially trained.

There's only one place their attackers could have come from."

"And the other prisoners?"

The captain wanted to smile, but good sense overrode the impulse. "As you ordered, sire, as you ordered."

The king tented his fingers beneath his chin and stared at the floor.

The captain tried not to feel the definite chill that had entered the room.

"Well," the king said at last. He lifted his gaze. "It seems you have done all you can, Captain, under the circumstances."

The captain didn't even dare blink.

"You have failed me, of course."

"Yes, sire."

"Good men are dead because you failed."

"Yes, sire."

The king lowered his hands into his lap and clasped them loosely. ' 'But you are, for the moment, too valuable to lose." A finger pointed. "Before you grow too confident, however, know that you only have one chance to redeem yourself, Captain. One chance, no more than that. So." He sniffed, studied the vaulted ceiling for a moment, and shook his head. ' 'You will get a good night's sleep, rest your body and mind, and first thing in the morning you will meet with your lieutenants. You will talk, you will devise, and by nightfall, you will bring me a foolproof plan to take care of our . .. problem."

The captain swallowed. "Sire, if.. . if I may?"

The king nodded, very slowly.

"Sire, as much as I wish I could tell you differently, we're really not ready yet. Not for what you're suggesting. The men are still training. The armorers are still working. I don't even want to talk about that idiot making the chariots. Not to mention the—"

"Your spies," the king said as if the captain hadn't spoken, "tell you that the camp is only at half strength, yes? A little less, perhaps?"

I knew it, the captain thought dismally; I knew it.

"Yes, sire."

"Are you telling me, then, that half that swine's army is better than your men?"

"Of course not, sire!"

The king smiled. It was a terrible smile, even on a man as short as he. "Then by nightfall, Captain. You will come back to me by nightfall."

There was no room for protest. The captain bowed stiffly, made a smart about-face, and marched from the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, he sagged against the wall and wiped a torrent of sweat from his brow. He was alive, so he supposed he ought to be grateful. But he might as well be dead. Oh, there'd be a plan by nightfall, he wouldn't fail his king there. The problem was, that plan was going to get them all skewered, if not worse, by the point of Zorin's Fire.

Sleep, he thought glumly as he made his way toward his quarters; sure, right, and tomorrow I'm going to be the richest man in the kingdom.