Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 01 (14 page)

Arclin remained in the throne room for over an hour, staring blindly at the dark walls. He had dismissed his court because he didn't want them to see how apprehensive he was. He had to be strong. He had to be stern. He had to prove that he had the makings of a true king so they'd stop whispering about how things had changed since his father had died.

Again, he smiled that terrible smile.

Well, things were going to change, all right.

It didn't matter that the Grand Scheme had had to be pushed up a month or so. Once it was in place, by tomorrow night if that weasel captain wanted to draw another breath, nothing would stop it.

And nothing would stop him.

Nothing.

Crisalt dreaded going into the tent.

It had been bad enough sitting alone with Hercules, feeling the unnatural power that fairly rippled off the man's body, listening to his barely concealed sarcasm, watching him ignore every threat and intimidation.

It galled. And he didn't even look like much—a little taller than average, maybe, and a bit more bulk here and there—but that
power
was enough to make a strong man quail.

Now he knew what Zorin had meant.

Bad enough, indeed.

Now, however, he had to go in there and tell his leader what he had just learned from a man who had lived only long enough to bring the news to the camp. His wounds had been horrid, and Crisalt suspected they had been inflicted that way exactly so he'd be able to deliver the message and nothing more.

The outside guards looked at him oddly.

He snarled at them, tugged at his beard, and marched in.

Zorin was alone, and the fire in its pit was nearly out.

"Well?" Zorin demanded.

"I have news."

"Hercules?"

"Other news."

"Tell me."

He did, and braced himself.

As expected, Zorin lunged to his feet and bellowed, "That spineless little grub did
what
?"

"All but one, sir."

"Hunted down? Slaughtered? They had no weapons to protect them?"

"Yes. Defenseless."

Zorin's face reddened, and Crisalt was afraid the man would explode. Instead he dropped back into his chair and yanked angrily at his clothes, at his hair.

"Which one escaped?"

"Theo."

Zorin looked incredulous. "Theo? The Mangier?"

Crisalt nodded.

Zorin laughed and looked at the ceiling. "I don't suppose his body will be found?"

"I doubt it, sir. My guess is, he was able to get away during the fight."

Zorin nodded, cocked his head, and grinned. "I would bet he's halfway to Athens by now." He slapped a knee. "Well, good luck to him. Any man who escapes two death sentences in one day deserves another chance." A slow turn of his head, a sideways look. "Now tell me about Hercules."

Crisalt moved closer to his leader, pulled up a stool, and presumed to sit without invitation. "But what about Arclin?"

"Oh, I'm so afraid, Crisalt, can't you see I'm so afraid?' Zorin stared at the dying fire, and spat dryly at it. "When all the parties are back, old friend, we'll send him a little Fire. Meanwhile, I want to know about Hercules. What did he say, what did he do, why is he here?"

Crisalt told him, as simply and unemotionally as possible. Throughout the narration, Zorin nodded, or grunted, or stared at the ceiling, or plucked invisible things from the fur that lined his chair.

A bad sign.

Crisalt kept talking, but eased the stool back without, he hoped, seeming to do so.

When he was finished, Zorin looked at him for a long time before saying, "If you had taken five more minutes, you'd be outside, you know."

Crisalt looked around sheepishly, grinned stupidly, and dragged the stool back to the center of the floor.

"So what are you going to do with him?"

"Kill him."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. My friend, Hercules is not a man to fool around with. You know that now, I can tell.

Torture is fine for ordinary men. He is no ordinary man. So what you'll do is, as soon as you leave, surround the tent with your best men, as armed as they can get without falling over. Then take at least a score more, arm them, fetch Hercules, and bring him to me." He rubbed his palms together. "Then ... we'll kill him."

Crisalt was disappointed. He understood the precautions because he had felt the power, but he had really hoped for a few minutes' recreation before the deed was done.

"I know, I know," Zorin said with a regretful nod and look. ' 'But this is no time to take chances, Crisalt.

The sooner Hercules is taken care of, the sooner we can pay a visit to our friend with the crown." An eyebrow lifted. "And then, I promise you, we'll have all the fun we can handle."

Crisalt rose at Zorin's gesture, gave him a friendly mocking bow, and hurried outside. Took a deep breath. Looked up at the stars and hoped one of them would be lucky enough to keep him alive long enough for him to have that promised fun.

He had a feeling that was one wish it would take a miracle to fulfill.

Restraining the urge to laugh, Zorin watched Crisalt leave, so stiff-legged it was clear the man wanted to run, not walk. But he didn't blame him. Things had come to a head much sooner, perhaps too much sooner, than either of them had anticipated. He had to give Arclin some credit, though—he didn't expect the tiny toad to have this much courage. Taunting Zorin by breaking their prisoner agreement. Daring him to do something about it when he obviously knew the raider camp was at less than half of full strength.

Had Arclin been a foe worthy of even a modicum of respect, Zorin would have applauded him before personally stomping him into the ground.

As it was, he only promised himself to keep the king alive. Buried up to his neck, to be sure, in the middle of the courtyard of what would soon be Zorin's palace.

But alive.

While Zorin watched him starve to death. If, of course, the creatures under the earth didn't get to him first.

He grunted a laugh.

He rose, stretched, and wondered if he should have the Fire ready when Hercules was brought to him.

He grunted again.

Probably.

It always made him feel good when he saw the expression on a man's face, the expression that told him the man knew he was going to die.

On Hercules, the expression would be priceless.

There were times when Hercules wished he had some magic in him. Not a whole lot; just enough to make certain situations a little easier to bear. A wave of a wand like Hermes' caduceus, for example, and his enemies would be vanquished, his wounds healed, his life in general made a whole lot simpler.

He suspected, though, that a life like that, for a man like him, would also be unbearably dull.

Considering his current circumstances, however, maybe dull wouldn't be all that bad once in a while.

For the fifth time since Crisalt had left, he tested the strength of the rope that bound his wrists, straining to break it, snap it, even stretch it a little. It didn't work. His position was too awkward.

Watching the entrance carefully, then, he pushed back against the furs behind him and tried to bring his hands down, under his rump, and out to the front.

He got as far as his rump before he overheard one guard question the other about maybe checking on their prisoner before Crisalt returned. The second guard, in as few words as possible, wanted to know if his friend had lost his tiny, and evidently nonfunctioning, mind. The prisoner was fine. The prisoner wasn't going anywhere. The guard had no intention of tempting fate, the gods, or Zorin by going in there and inadvertently doing something stupid.

The first guard grumbled a little and agreed.

Hercules agreed as well, braced his feet on the ground, and lifted himself just enough to ease his weight from his hands. His cheeks puffed as he blew a breath of relief before drawing his feet in close so he could slip his hands under them and up over his knees.

After that, it was easy.

His posturing earlier had made the guards too nervous when they had returned to retie him. The rope wasn't nearly as tight as it had been, and now it was just a matter of getting it off without alerting those outside that something was wrong.

He tried a simple snap; it didn't work.

He tried pulling his hands apart quickly, and all that did was break a sweat across his brow and rub the rope harshly against his skin.

All right, so maybe a little magic wouldn't hurt.

Crisalt suggested to the guards in front of Zorin's headquarters that they leave their posts on peril of their lives, both here and in the underworld. Then he stomped off toward the main camp, muttering to himself, shaking his head, muttering some more, and finally stopping at a clutch of tents that housed the army's elite.

He picked six men, told them to arm themselves as if they were going to single-handedly attack Sparta and leave no survivors, and follow him.

They had two minutes to get ready, or he would make sure their families were told how brave they had been when they died.

Two minutes later he was on his way to get Hercules.

Again Hercules stared at the entrance, but this time he didn't see it. He didn't see anything. All his concentration centered on the rope, on the wrists, on the arms.

On the
power.

The camp faded as if a pale cloud had settled over it; sound muted, movement paused, nothing left but silence.

A slow inhalation filled his chest as he imagined his arms drifting slowly apart. Biceps swelled, his face darkened, his forearms became rigid, and the rope began to strain. He could feel the individual strands stretch and tighten, could feel the burning they caused, could feel them separate from each other and stretch still more.

Crisalt and his men crossed the shallow stream.

He warned them that Hercules didn't look like much, but could take them all on without breathing heavily.

To a man they doubted it, and doubted it loudly.

Crisalt shrugged.

What he didn't tell them was the way he had felt when confronting Hercules.

What he didn't tell them was what he knew he would only admit to himself in nightmares.

What he didn't tell them was the fear.

And for making him feel that, Hercules would have to die. One way or another.

Hercules began to shake, just a little. Sweat rolled down his arms, his spine. The rope thinned.

The strands began to snap, one by one.

• • •

An empty, ox-drawn wagon lumbered across the path Crisalt intended to take. He swore at the driver, swore at the oxen, swore at the wagon, and suddenly had a bad feeling about the night.

Hercules sensed the bones in his wrists approach the breaking point, and with a near-silent grunt jerked, and pulled, and the rope finally fell away.

He sagged against the furs with a long sigh, blinked a few times to clear his vision, and hastily attacked the loose tether around his ankles. The knot had been sloppily tied, and it came undone without much effort, despite the clumsiness of his fingers. He flexed them to bring back their strength, stood, and almost immediately decided against leaving by the front door. There were too many men out there, and as swift as he could be, one of them would be bound to spot him.

Unfortunately his captors hadn't been thoughtful enough to leave him any weapons, and that magic he didn't have couldn't change his appearance.

What he needed was a little luck.

Hurry!" Crisalt told his men. They asked no questions. They began to run.

Hercules seldom kidded himself when it came to fate. As much as he was pleased when good fortune tagged along on one of his journeys, he also knew that it could leave him without warning. This also made him realize that luck was largely a matter of determination; it was there if he just looked hard enough.

Such as the tent he was in, and how it would help him get out of here before they came to get him.

He grinned, and easily snapped a rawhide tie from around the bundle of fur he had been using as a brace. Seconds later he found one just barely long enough for use as a makeshift cloak. He tucked it under one arm, moved the stack aside, and tested the bottom of the tent.

It lifted easily.

"There!" Crisalt called, and pointed. "There it is!"

Wasting no more time, Hercules drew the pile back into place as best he could while at the same time he crawled out. It wouldn't fool anyone for very long, but even a second's advantage might be just what he needed.

He caped the newly treated fur around his shoulders and held it closed across his throat with his left hand. His dress would instantly peg him as an outsider, but here the setup of the camp itself worked in his favor. With the tents arranged in rows, and spaced several paces apart in makeshift streets, the single torches that burned before each did little to dispel the darkness. He would be seen, yet only briefly, nothing more than a shadow that once in a while gained human form.