by By The Sword
"Doomed!" the shadow man cried.
"Looks like tonight's the night," Nikos concluded ruefully. He pointed over the carts. "They were spotted on the road." He rubbed his hands together. "But we're ready for them."
Hercules looked at the streets that led off the square. "Nikos, I don't want to disappoint you, you've obviously worked hard, but what's to stop them from coming in from the other sides?"
Nikos seemed shocked. "You're kidding."
"No."
"They'd really do something like that?"
"Yes."
Nikos pursed his lips. "Pride," he answered after a moment's careful consideration. "The stories say they're so bold, they never come through the back door. Why should they when they never lose?'
Hercules studied the other routes again, not caring for the prickling at the back of his neck. "What if the stories are wrong?"
"Doomed, doomed, doomed!" cried the shadow man.
Nikos nodded. "That about covers, it."
At which point one of the archers waved and yelled, "They're coming!"—and the square fell instantly silent, save for the hissing of the torches, and the whispered ' 'Doom' of the shadow man.
If the stories were true, however, Hercules suspected that all this preparation would be for naught. The villagers might gain temporary advantage, but temporary, in cases like this, usually ended in disaster.
He thought quickly for a moment, then hurried over to the barrier and stared out into the night.
He could see them, marching boldly down the center of the road.
As far as he could tell, there were only nine or ten of them, perhaps a dozen, marching two abreast.
They were heavily armed and heavily armored, at least three of them with feathered lances. Torchlight flared off silver studs on helmets and tunics, and the sound of their boots on the hard ground was like the steady beat of a war drum. Each carried a shield wrapped in hide, which, he knew, was designed to hold, not ruin, whatever arrows came their way.
There were more.
He knew it.
Out there beyond the reach of the light was the rest of the band, however big that might be. These men would be used to test the initial defenses, confident that their losses would be minimal. From the way the villager defenders fidgeted, from the way he saw one archer up on the right struggle to nock an arrow, he reckoned Markan didn't have a prayer, no matter what god or goddess happened to be listening.
Still, he couldn't help wondering ... always the front way? Always the frontal assault?
This was more than arrogance born of skill and success.
This was ... he frowned . . . downright spooky.
The raiders halted not ten feet from the cart-and-wagon wall, and a clean-shaven man with a horned helmet took a step forward, his unsheathed sword hanging loosely at his side. He lowered his shield and tapped the sword against it.
"You in there," he called sternly. "You don't have to die, you know."
Nikos had moved to the center of the makeshift wall, where two wagons had been backed against each other. He stood at the narrow gap between the wagons' rear wheels. "Then go away."
The bearded raider laughed. "Not likely, my friend. We've come a long way. We want, uh, food, drink, women ... and, oh yes, all your money. We get that, and we promise not to harm you."
"And the village?" Nikos asked, sweeping a hand behind him.
"Oh." The raider shrugged. "Well, we'll burn that down, of course."
The Markans growled.
The raiders laughed.
Hercules vaulted smoothly into the wagon before him, put his hands on his hips, and said calmly, ' 'No one gets hurt, nothing gets burned."
The leader gaped, looked at his men, looked back, and grinned. "And who says so?"
"I do."
"And who are you?"
"A friend," Hercules answered before Nikos could.
Again the raider grinned. "Well, listen. . .friend .. . why don't you go back where you came from and let me and the guy with the big nose do all the talking. My boys are getting restless."
The boys growled.
Nikos growled, albeit not as effectively as the boys, and swung his club.
Hercules only smiled a little regretfully. "Just leave, all right? I promise you, you don't know what you're getting into."
The leader scowled. "What? Are you threatening me with a bunch of farmers and shopkeepers?" He peered at Hercules. "And a guy who can't even keep his shirt buttoned?"
"Uh-oh," Nikos muttered.
Hercules didn't lose the smile on his lips, but the smile faded from his eyes. "One last chance."
"Oh," the leader said, "this is boring. The hell with the talk."
With a great shout he charged, his men directly on his heels.
Immediately, a shower of arrows filled the air from the rooftops, most of them missing, the few that struck their targets doing so harmlessly. Rocks flew. Villagers braced themselves. The leader reached the center of the barrier and scrambled between the wheels.
Not fast enough, however.
Hercules reached down and grabbed his left arm, yanked him off his feet and into the wagon bed. As the others reached the wall and began to shove the carts and wagons apart with an ease born of practice—and carts and wagons that weren't all that heavy to begin with—Hercules hoisted the leader over his head, turned, and flung him effortlessly toward the well.
Meanwhile Nikos had brought one raider to his knees with a well-aimed blow to the shoulder, while the other raiders were busily bringing the villagers to their knees with the flat sides of their swords.
"Keep an eye out there," Hercules called to the archers. "There may be more."
"More?" It was the shadow man. "Double-doomed!"
Hercules jumped from the cart and grabbed the helmet of a passing raider. The raider ran on, Hercules smiled and sidearmed the helmet, whistling it through the air, catching the raider square on his naked skull.
A third man rammed a stunted club into Hercules' back. He gasped and stumbled forward, half turning as the raider thrust his sword toward his neck.
The sword never made it.
Nikos snapped it with his club, then transferred the momentum up and under the raider's chin, sending him off his feet and onto his back.
"Thanks," Hercules said.
Nikos looked at the fallen raider and said, "Wow."
The rest of the battle happened so quickly, Hercules barely had time to register the jaws struck, the bodies that flew, or bounced, or both, and the blows he himself took, most of them harmless and the others merely pesky.
Within a few minutes the attack part of the raid was over, and the villagers had won.
What raiders hadn't already been wounded or belted unconscious formed a loose protective circle around the well, facing outward, and already a half-dozen Markans lay at their feet; in the firelight their blood sank blackly into the ground. It was clear to Hercules that they believed they would easily be able to stave off any further village assault until the rest of their band arrived to rescue them.
He also knew there was little time left. The Markans were brave, but they just weren't warriors.
As another wave of villagers tried to break the raiders' defense, he turned back to the "wall," inspected it quickly, and discovered a fallen lance beneath one, caught under a wheel the largest, heaviest wagon.
"What are you doing?" Nikos asked.
An archer tried to pick the raiders off, and was picked off himself.
His scream was swallowed by the night.
Hercules tugged at the lance, cursed when it wouldn't loosen easily, and grabbed hold of the wheel's thick spokes; he lifted, muscles swelling, eyes partially closed.
A young man rolled on the ground in agony, clutching a gash in his shoulder; another knelt before the raiders, his hands pressed tightly to his stomach.
The wagon protested loudly, creaking, then shrieking, then groaning as it rose, just enough for Hercules to nudge the lance as
ide with his foot. When he dropped the wagon and stepped back quickly, the axle split and the wagon collapsed.
"Sorry," he said, and picked up the lance, held it in both hands, and turned.
"There're too many," Nikos said, worried.
"Watch," was all Hercules offered as he advanced cautiously on the well.
Nikos waved the rest of his men into a charge.
The raiders braced themselves while their leader stood on the lip and snarled, his sword sweeping back and forth. He muttered something then, and Hercules suspected he knew what it was.
A moment later the man jumped from the well, his men forming a wall that pushed toward the carts, and the freedom beyond.
The villagers were knocked aside like high grass before a great wind.
Hercules charged as well, the lance held lengthwise in front of him.
He stopped abruptly and snapped his arms out, releasing the heavy weapon, which struck the front four raiders squarely across their chests, knocking them off their feet. He sprang over them to face their leader.
The raider didn't stop his charge or change direction. His sword lifted, and he swung his shield. Hercules blocked it with his left forearm, grunted at the impact, and ducked when the sword chopped at his head. Lashing out instantly with his right leg, his foot caught the man's knee and tumbled him face first into his men.
Within seconds the villagers had pounced, snatching weapons away, using whatever came to hand to pound the surviving raiders senseless.
When it over, and it was over quickly, there was another silence.
This one, however, was soon puncutated by the groans of the wounded, the pleas of the dying, and the muffled weeping of the women who had come to the site to tend to the fallen.
Hercules wasted no time.
He ordered the attackers doused with water to bring them around, then ordered three, including the leader, to be bound hand and foot. The others he ordered chained together at the wrist after stripping them of their armor.
"I don't get it," Nikos said, following as Hercules led the survivors toward the road.
"We're letting them go."
"What?"
"They'll go back to this Zorin and tell him what happened here. One man might be accused of cow-ardice, and lying to save his own skin. So might two. But these miserable ..." He nodded in disgust at the seven strung out behind him. "These will be the truth."
"But what are they going to tell Zorin?" Nikos wiped his face and stared in surprise at the blood he saw on his palm. "He'll just bring his whole band back to get revenge, and we'll all be dead anyway."
"No," Hercules said.
He dragged the men to the road, grabbed the first in line by the throat, and said, "You heard?"
The man, bruised and cut over one eye, nodded fearfully.
Hercules nodded, and lowered his voice. "Then you tell him this, too, friend. You tell him this village has my protection, do you understand?"
The man nodded again, so hard his teeth clacked.
"Oh, yeah?" The second man, who seemed to have lost one ear, sneered. "So who the hell are you?"
Hercules stood in front of him, grabbed his shoulders, and yanked him so close their noses nearly touched.
"Hercules," he said tightly. "You tell this Zorin it's Hercules."
No one said a word.
Hercules stood aside and jerked a thumb. Immediately, the line began to move, stumbling weakly along the road, cursing, complaining, until they vanished into the night.
"You know," Nikos said after a few moments, "you're scary when you're mad."
Hercules looked at him. "Believe me, Nikos, you haven't seen me when I'm mad."
Slowly he returned to the square, and felt sick at what he saw. Too many had been injured, too many had died. It was evident that the tales about Zorin's raiders understated their brutality, if this is what only a handful of them could do.
No wonder there weren't any more of them out there; there didn't need to be.
"Nikos," he said when the innkeeper came up beside him, "do you have someone you trust to take over your inn for a few days?"
Startled, Nikos nodded. "But why?"
Hercules pointed to the remaining prisoners. "We're taking them on a trip."
"We are? Where?"
"King Arclin," he said. "We're taking them to King Arclin."
"You know," said Nikos, late the following afternoon, "I'm not really a fighter."
Hercules simply moved his head in an automatic nod. The innkeeper had been building up to this ever since they had left Markan, and he figured he had better let the man speak now, or he'd be at it all night and neither one of them would get a wink of sleep.
"Really. I'm not."
Hercules had borrowed an open, two-horse wagon from one of the merchants, and the three remaining raiders were now in back, tied, grumbling about the dust and the ruts and the lousy food service, of which, as a matter of fact, there hadn't been any. Generally behaving, that is to say, like prisoners who had no intention of giving their warders an easy time of it. Especially their leader, Theo—Theo the Mangier, he called himself, for reasons Hercules decided he didn't want to know.
' 'I mean, the club is okay for what it does, you see. But that's not the real me."
Hercules, the reins easy in his hands, made several wordless but respectful noises.
"You see, the real me is more what you call your basic peace-loving man, you see what I mean? The club is only a symbol. The most I ever used it for was whacking a table now and then to keep the rowdies from tearing up the place. I never would have used it. I don't think I could."
"You were all right last night, pal," Theo the Mangier grumbled sourly. He struggled with his bonds a little, but more out of a sense of obligation than any real hope of breaking free. Thick rope tightly wound about a man's chest and ankles tended to do that to a prisoner.
Nikos looked over his shoulder. "Oh, well, that was different. I mean, you were trying to kill me, weren't you?"
"Damn straight."
"Well, there, you see? Self-defense. Any man can engage in self-defense without losing his peace-loving nature, you understand? Wouldn't be natural otherwise."
The Mangier shifted uncomfortably, trying to force more room between himself and his compatriots.
They would have moved, too, if they could have. They couldn't. The wagon was too small, barely wide enough for the three of them to stretch out their legs. If their knees bent a little. And they weren't too fussy about sudden cramps.
"What I see," the raider said, "is that peace-loving men are sheep, who don't deserve to have a life."
Nikos frowned. "Well, that's a matter for debate, don't you think?"
Theo growled.
"Exactly." Nikos grinned.
Exactly what? Hercules wondered, but didn't ask. If he asked, Nikos would probably tell him. And take his time about it, too.
As it was, they still had another day's travel ahead of them, and he wasn't all that sure the entire trip would be uneventful. Not that he didn't mind traveling; he did it all the time. It was, as a friend of his once said, part of his job description. What he did mind, however, were the horses. He seldom rode them. He walked everywhere it was possible to walk, riding only in emergencies, and even then he would have preferred that while riding he be unconscious.
He wasn't afraid of the beasts; he just didn't trust them very much. They had disturbing tendencies to stop short for no clear reason, and never mind the poor saps riding on their backs who, when the horses stopped short, generally weren't on their backs anymore.
He clucked softly. The two blacks shook their heads and pulled a little faster.
At least he didn't have to ride over mountains, or forge raging rivers, or cross rickety bridges over thou-sand-foot ravines. Most of the countryside had thus far been rolling pasture and meadowland, the forest having long since fallen away to the foothills in the hazy distance. A comfortable breeze kept the flies away, and its direction kept
the dust from choking them. Even the road itself wasn't all that bad, what with ruts at a minimum and rocks pretty much all harvested for well walls, pasture boundaries, and such.
' 'Has it ever occurred to you,' Theo snarled,' 'that Zorin is probably looking for us?"
"Good grief, no," Nikos said, twisting around now, one arm resting on the board that served as the driver's backrest. "He'll be too busy trying to figure out what he should do about Hercules."
The other raiders mumbled.
Theo scowled. "Come on. You think Zorin is afraid of Hercules?"
"If he's smart, he would be."
Theo laughed derisively. He glared at the others, and they laughed, too. "Zorin isn't afraid of anything, my friend. Not even the gods."
Nikos huffed. "That's because he hasn't met Hercules."
"Even then."
"Oh, I don't think so."
"My hat."
Nikos frowned. "What?"
Theo said, "My hat. I can't see. My bloody hat's fallen over my eyes."
Hercules couldn't help it; he looked. And it had. He looked back to the road that led them away from the setting sun and thought, I have fought against veritable armies; I have battled a couple of gods and more than my share of monsters; I have been bloodied and had some bones broken, I've been chained and whipped and nearly drowned, and come close to ending up in the Elysian Fields more than once . . . and this is where it all leads?
To a man who calls himself Theo the Mangier and complains about his stupid helmet? He should look in a stream sometime—those horns made him look like a sickly goat.
Nikos leaned over and straightened it.
"Thanks," said Theo.
"A peace-loving man," said the innkeeper, "always knows how to keep his customers happy." Then he turned to Hercules. "Really. I'm not a fighter."
"All right, Nikos, all right," he said wearily. "What's the point?"
"Ah. Well, you see, the point is, we're going to the king, right?"
"Right."
"Ha!" Theo said.
"Now, when we get there, the king will want to hear the whole story, right?"
"Right."
