Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01 (15 page)

If he crouched to disguise his height, it would take a sharp-eyed raider indeed to realize this man wasn't one of theirs. Especially since he did not try to conceal himself, but walked as if with purpose, intent on following a commander's orders so he could get himself back to his bed.

Crisalt couldn't believe his rotten luck.

Neither would he admit to the others that he had counted wrong, and had brought them to the wrong place.

"Okay," he said curtly, as if he knew what he was talking about. "You've got the drill. Good. Now let's get him before Zorin slices us all."

As he led his men away, he knew this was going to cost him dearly just to keep their mouths shut. And just when he had enough to make the down payment on that retirement villa down south.

Hercules passed a small fire around which a half-dozen raiders gambled with ivory sticks and clay cups.

They grumbled a greeting, he grunted one in return.

Farther on, to his right, he saw two men lounging by a fence, drinking from a bulging wineskin. On the other side of the fence he could see the shadowy figures of horses, the occasional glint of an eye, and heard one horse impatiently pawing the ground. Next to this corral was another that, by the sound and smell of it, held the oxen and cattle. One of the men called to him drunkenly, and he waved over his shoulder as he swung sharply left, soon finding himself at the stream Theo had told him parted the valley down its middle.

Isolated reflections of fire rippled across its surface; stars, he thought, that didn't quite make it to the heavens.

Another fifty yards brought him to the last of the soldiers' tents. The stream curved away into the dark to the left.

And directly ahead he saw Zorin's headquarters.

Crisalt's eyes bulged, his mouth opened to yell, and his right hand clutched his sword so tightly his fingers threatened to cramp.

The tent was down, the bundles of fur and hides unbound and scattered.

"Gone?" he gasped in disbelief.

The guards cowered.

"Gone?"

The guards glanced uneasily at each other, daring each other to remind the commander that he himself had ordered them not, under any circumstances, to go into the tent without him.

"Gone?"

The six elite shrugged; this, thank the gods, wasn't their problem.

Crisalt rounded on the guards, intending to behead them even as he remembered that he had ordered them to remain outside no matter what Hercules said, no matter what they might hear inside. But it would be a wasted effort. In truth, they weren't to blame, they were good men, and he would need all the good men he could find when Zorin found out.

One of the guards dared break the silence: "Shall we alert the gate, sir?"

He almost agreed, then changed his mind with an audible gulp. "By the gods," he whispered. "By the gods."

He knew were Hercules was headed.

The raider headquarters wasn't hard to miss, even though it was black.

A large open space separated it from the bulk of the camp. High torch poles placed ten yards apart fronted it, illuminating its size and underscoring its importance. The center flap was held up by two stout poles, like a canopy; flanking the entrance were four guards in full armor and full weaponry. They had no doubt been chosen for the dubious honor not only because of their skills, but because of their size.

Hercules decided walking right in probably wouldn't work.

Never easy, he grumbled to himself as he veered to his right, keeping as far away from the reach of the torches as he could; it's never easy, is it? It has to be hard. Like there's some kind of law that says I can't have it easy once in a while.

Yet finding a way to sneak into Zorin's tent would take time; and time was the one thing he had precious little of at the moment.

So if there was a law, it was about time he broke it.

Keeping his head down and the fur close around him, he passed between two torch poles and headed directly for the canopy. None of the guards spotted him until he was but a few paces away, and when they did, it was as if they had all seen him at the same time—they swiveled as one, swords drawn, shields up.

"Go away," was the simple command one of them gave.

Hercules mumbled, and kept walking.

"Hey, toad, you heard me—go away!"

Hercules hesitated, shuffling as if in confusion.

"Five seconds and you're dog meat."

Hercules didn't give them that long.

He tossed aside the cloak and grabbed the nearest guard's shield, yanking it free and clobbering him with it. Without pausing, he spun and slammed it into the face of the man next to him. The heel of a boot caught the third in the stomach, sending him instantly to his knees. The fourth guard managed one step before Hercules drew back his arm, whipped it forward, and let the shield do all the work.

The guard dropped.

One man remained—the guard still gasping for breath on his knees. "Sorry," Hercules said, and thumped him. The man grunted, swayed, and sagged the rest of the way to the ground.

Not pretty, but effective.

He ducked under the canopy and strode inside.

Zorin was in his chair. He looked up, glared, and said, "Who are you?"

Hercules glanced around, but didn't stop walking.
"I was going to say I'm your worst nightmare, but after seeing this place, I've changed my mind."

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.