Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01 (7 page)

"Nothing," Hercules admitted, unable to stop a brief smile. "Not unless you tell me."

A stirring by the fire made Hercules put a finger to his lips.

Hermes nodded knowingly, adjusted his cap and kilt again, then stroked the wings on his sandals. He squinted into the middle distance, lips moving as he repeated the message to himself, then broke into a broad smile. "Got it."

"Fine."

Nikos snored, sputtered, and burrowed deeper under his cloak until only his nose was exposed.

Hermes cleared his throat and lay a hand on the flat of his chest.

"No," Hercules said hastily.

Hermes looked shocked. "No? What do you mean, no?"

"I mean, no singing."

Hermes
was
shocked. "What do you mean, no singing?"

Theo the Mangier shifted in the wagon, and his horns fell off.

"Look," Hercules said patiently, "I've had a. long day, no sleep, little enough to eat, and I've a long day tomorrow. I've got three prisoners over there I have to take to King Arclin for interrogation, an innkeeper who isn't a fighter, and ..." He cocked one eyebrow. "And a sneaking suspicion you already know all this."

Hermes acted insulted. ' 'Me? How would I know? I've been looking for you for practically months."

"The message."

Hermes cleared his throat.

Hercules glared.

Hermes pouted again. "You have no sense of culture, Hercules. No sense of the arts."

"The message. Please."

"Okay, but you aren't going to like it."

Although Hermes was the messenger for all the gods, his primary missions generally came from Zeus.

Hercules hadn't spoken to his father in well over a year. Not since his wife and children had been killed by Hera, and Zeus hadn't done a thing to prevent the slaughter.

It was part of the curse of his destiny.

Source of his worst nightmares.

He gestured with one hand:
Go ahead, I'm ready, give it to me.

Hermes sat straighter. "Some months ago, after many, many weeks of thought and preparation, a special gift was prepared for Zeus. A very special gift. A gift fit only for a god. A gift of such magnificence and radiance that only a god would appreciate its true value. A gift—"

Hercules leaned over and grabbed Hermes' knee.

"What? What?" Hermes wanted to know.

"Spare me the embellishments, please?"

"What? But the embellishments are the best part. It takes me forever to get them right. You have no idea, my dear, how right they have to be. Otherwise . . . why, otherwise, your message might as well be written on a rock for every Nik and Nora to read." Indignant, Hermes yanked at the kilt's hem, and winced when he heard the distinct sound of cloth ripping.

“And I suppose I deserve those embellishments?'

"But of course!"

"And without them the message would say ... ?"

"Well, without them, to the untrained ear, it would say Hephaestos made a gift for Zeus, some jokers found a way inside the new forge, swiped it, and nobody's seen it since."

Hercules opened his mouth, closed it, leaned back against the boulder, and stared at the stars.

Zorin's Fire.

The raider had said something about Zorin's Fire.

"This gift," he said.

"Magnificent," Hermes declared. His hands fluttered in the air in a vain attempt to describe it non-verbally; his sandal wings grew so excited, they lifted his feet off the ground and toppled him onto his back ... or would have done so had not the cap's wings counterbalanced the movement with frantic flapping of their own. The result was Hermes sitting in midair, rocking back and forth and looking well on his way to getting seasick, or airsick.

"What," Hercules said, "was the gift? Exactly."

Hermes grimaced an apology and worked first on getting himself back on the ground. Once done, he tugged on the kilt, fixed his cap, and said, "A sword."

I don't think I want to hear the rest of this, Hercules thought.

"A sword of fire."

I definitely don't want to hear any more of this.

"Not really of fire, of course, or no one but old Hephaestos could hold it. But fire can be summoned from it."

Hercules held up a palm to shut the messenger up.

"A very special sort of fire."

He held up the other palm.

"There is, according to Hephaestos, nothing in this world that can protect a man from it."

Hercules dropped his hands. "Swell."

"Hephaestos wants you to get it back."

"Wonderful."

"He says, if you do this for him, he'll make you a special sword all your own."

"Great. But I don't use swords."

"He thought of that. He said that if you don't want a sword, you can have a date with his wife."

"If I date Aphrodite, he'll kill me."

"He thought of that. He said if you don't want a date with his wife—and he won't be offended if you don't—he'll forge a special lining for those absolutely hideous armbands of yours. You'll be able knock a mountain down with one swing of one arm."

Hercules examined the thick, woven leather that bound his arms from wrist to elbow. "Hideous?"

"Well, of course, Hercules. My dear, they're so declasse, don't you know."

Hercules looked at him. "Declasse?"

Hermes shrugged. "I don't know either. Some foreign word, I think. Macedonian or something. But it sounds right, don't you think? I mean, really, Hercules, you ought to do something about your wardrobe anyway, what with those ..."

Hercules let him ramble on, not listening, nodding now and again, smiling weakly, while he thought about the proposal.

To do something that would benefit Zeus, who had let his family die so horribly, was out of the question.

Yet Hephaestos was a wonderful old sort, who could work positive magic with his hammer and anvil, forge and fire. Of all Hercules' brothers or half brothers, depending on who did the bragging, Hephaestos was very likely his favorite, with Hermes a close second. To turn him down would hurt the man deeply.

Yet by accepting, he would be helping Zeus.

In his haste to refuse the request, he almost cut Hermes off, then heard Nikos stirring again. Thinking of Nikos reminded him of Bestor, and Lydia, and Dutricia . . . and the raiders.

The people who had died in Markan.

And those who had died elsewhere at the hands of Zorin's men.

He exhaled slowly, and loudly.

"Not to mention that shirt thing," Hermes continued, plucking at it in disgust. "I mean, that sort of yellowish whatever does complement your hair, I'll give it that much, but..." He shook his head and shuddered.

"I'll do it," Hercules told him.

Hermes' eyes widened in delight. "Now that's the first smart thing you've said all night." He fumbled with his kilt for a moment, and cursed. "Nuts. I forgot pockets. No matter. I know the address by heart.'

"What address?"

"Of a perfectly divine, so to speak, tailor. He'll have you fixed up in no time, believe me. Why—"

"No," Hercules said. He smiled to soften the refusal's sting. "Thanks, but no. I will try to get Hephaestos' sword back, though." The smile faded quickly. "I can't let it remain here. It belongs with ..." He couldn't say it, and was grateful when Hermes nodded his understanding. "You will take a message to Hephaestos, then?"

"Oh, no, really?" Hermes' voice rose. "Do you have any idea how hot it is there? And it isn't even Etna, for crying out loud. It's his new summer place, some mountain I never heard of. The Other Side should be so hot."

Hercules laughed quietly. "You can't refuse the message."

"I know."

"So you'll tell him?"

Hermes nodded reluctantly. "But, dammit, it'll have more embellishments than one of Aphrodite's gowns, I can tell you."

"Knock yourself out," Hercules said.

Hermes giggled, then laughed, and he and Hercules spent most of the next hour trading gossip, complaining about gods who acted as if they were, well, gods, and wondering, rather somberly, what the world was coming to when a couple of ordinary thieves could sneak into a god's lair and steal a piece of his soul.

When they were done, Hermes snapped orders at his wings, yanked the caduceus out of the ground, and hovered over the boulder. "I'll see you soon," he promised.

"Good," Hercules answered. "I'd like that."

As Hermes rose into the night, he added, "And I'll bring you a sample of that cloth. I mean, really, Hercules, yellow? Come on, it's not you."

Maybe it wasn't, he thought; but if the alternative was a silver kilt, he'd stick to the yellow.

To stretch his legs, then, he walked over to the wagon to make sure the raiders were still bound. Satisfied they weren't about to get loose, he reached down, grabbed Theo's horned hat, and plopped it on the man's head, grinning when the Mangier grumbled in his sleep.

Nikos was practically buried by his cloak, only his prominent nose poking out.

The horses were fine, the night was fine, and as he settled back against his rock, he wished he were fine as well. Seeing Hermes again had brought back a lot of memories, not all of them bad, and it made him sad to realize that the feud with his father had substantially cut down on visitations from the Olympian side of the family.

That, in turn, made him angrier than ever at Zeus, his father.

Which, in turn, made him angry at himself for being angry.

And that cast him into a deep and troubled sleep.

When he awoke, his temper was short.

He opened his eyes shortly after sunrise, and it didn't help his temper at all when a large man with a lance in his hands and a plated helmet on his head pointed the weapon at him and said gruffly, "On your feet, boy. The king wants to see you."

Not having been called "boy" since childhood, Hercules reacted badly to the order. He grabbed the business end of the lance, used it and the soldier's surprise to yank himself to his feet, and was about to teach the man some manners when Nikos hustled over, waving his arms and explaining just who the soldier had on the other side of his weapon.

After a long moment's consideration, the soldier

Hercules smiled.

The soldier apologized and suggested that he would be extremely grateful if he could have his lance back. In one piece, thank you, please, and so sorry for the trouble, he was only following orders, and in this day and age, what with Zorin's raiders and all, a trooper can't be too careful.

Hercules told him it was all right, and anyway, he was always a little grumpy on first waking up.

When the soldier nodded his thanks and marched off to join a dozen others milling around the wagon and its prisoners, Hercules beckoned Nikos to his side.

"What's going on?"

"King Arclin," said the innkeeper breathlessly. "He heard we were on our way and sent an escort."

"He did."

"Yes." Nikos beamed with excitement. "A king's escort. Imagine that. I can't wait to tell Bestor and Lydia about this. This is going to make business at the Bull and Bullock boom, I can tell you."

Hercules, for his part, couldn't wait to find out just how the king had found out about this prisoner escort, but he said nothing just yet. He was hungry, for one thing, and for another, he was still half-asleep.

So he accepted a measly ration from one of the soldiers, took his place on the wagon, and allowed another soldier to do all the driving.

Nikos, riding the driver's horse, was too ecstatic to do anything but babble.

Like a child, Hercules thought fondly, and despite the inordinate speed with which the escort took to the road, he managed to doze most of the way, noting only that Theo the Mangier was, for a change, quiet.

The morning passed in a blur of fields, shrubs, and distant woodland. They passed few other travelers, but those they did pass always made way for the soldiers, greeting them with cheerful waves and calls of encouragement.

Nikos, meanwhile, quickly discovered the dubious wonders of riding horseback; specifically, the way the horse's spine regularly and not always rhythmically connected with the rump and spine of the rider. He did not complain, however. He smiled painfully, but bravely, at Hercules once in a while and kept his chin, and his nose, up.

They did not stop at midday, save for a minute or two at a stream to water the horses.

Hercules, his head throbbing from the speed at which the wagon took the road, discovering a marvel of new ruts and rocks along the way, glanced back to be sure the prisoners were still alive, not to mention still in the wagon. They were, it turned out, both of these things, although they jounced and bounced in such a way that he wondered if their heads were still attached to their necks.

Oddly enough, Theo, despite the discomfort, looked absolutely terrified, and only a stern whack on the head stopped his struggles to escape.