by By The Sword
The trouble with his plans were, however, that few of them ever worked the way they were supposed to.
People seldom did what his plans wanted them to, and he usually ended up improvising anyway, so why bother with a plan in the first place?
He grinned.
He squinted against the bright sun and watched the plain begin to rise toward the mountains.
It wasn't difficult to locate the place where the valley's entrance ought to be. And from the thick clouds that hovered over the one on the left, he suspected that that was where Hephaestos' summer forge was located.
Which gave him an idea.
Suppose he just went to Hephaestos first? The armorer wasn't as inflexible as his reputation sometimes suggested. He could be talked to. He was always open to reasonable persuasion, the exchange of ideas, the notion of compromise, the give-and-take of negotiation. A few words, a pleasant meal, a full stomach, and surely Hephaestos would give up this stupid idea of creating another volcano just because some idiot had stolen something of his.
Hercules smiled, and his step became a bit lighter.
And if he wouldn't give up the volcano-destruction idea, well, then, deadlines can be extended, terms agreed to, specifics hammered out, and in the meantime no one dies.
He almost laughed aloud as he entered a long, thin band of sycamores.
And as a last resort, he could always get Aphrodite on his side. Hephaestos never refused his wife anything, and she would certainly understand that Hercules was arguing from a strong position, a position of logic, a position of power.
He had seen her influence before.
It was formidable.
It was scary, too.
Maybe bringing her into it wouldn't be such a great idea. Especially if she sided with her husband.
All right, all right, he decided, we'll go with the first plan. I'll talk with Hephaestos, make him see that there are other ways to get what you want besides blowing up half a kingdom, and together we'll bring Zorin to his knees. No problem.
"Halt!"
On the other hand ...
Four heavily armed men stepped onto the path in front of him. Behind him four more stepped out of the trees; these held spears whose tips appeared obscenely sharp, and aimed at such portions of his anatomy as to make him revise his instant plan to take them all on.
"What are you doing here?" one of the men in front demanded.
Improvise, he ordered himself; use those instincts your mother claims are so godlike.
"I want to see Zorin," he said calmly.
The men laughed.
"And what makes you think he'll see you?"
"Because my name is Hercules, and I understand he's looking for me."
The laughter stopped.
Hercules folded his arms across his chest and waited. He had no idea why his instincts had directed him to say that, but he was willing to trust them for a while longer. At least long enough, he realized too late, for one of the spears to be placed lightly against the back of his neck, another in the small of his back, and a third under the point of his chin.
With no incentive to struggle, he allowed his arms to be bound behind his back and his ankles to be tethered, so that his stride was shortened to half its usual length. Once he was secured, the raiders marched him out of the trees and toward a high gate set between the mountains.
None of them spoke.
He didn't even try. He supposed he could have eventually burst the tether and shredded the bonds, and maybe even bested these men if they were willing to come at him only one or two at a time. The problem was those spears, whose tips continued to press against various parts of his back. One twitch, and he was punctured.
Not to mention those archers on the top of the gate.
Plans and improvisations, he thought sourly; but at least I'm going to see Zorin. One step closer to getting what I want.
An hour later, still bound, still guarded, he told himself to shut up.
The tent was small, with no center pole, just one at each corner. The ground was hard and worn bare.
Bundles of furs and hides were stacked unevenly around the walls, and Hercules had been dumped against one such pile at the back. He lay on his side, head aching from a thump with the butt of a spear, given for no other reason than the fact that he was who he was.
He didn't move.
There was no need; not now.
He had been brought directly here by the guards, and was pleased to see that Theo's map had been, for the most part, accurate. The camp was laid out in ranks and files on both sides of the shallow stream, wide
"streets" between them; meals were apparently taken in a communal area near the pond; the livestock were kept at the base of the south slope. As best he could tell, the valley was close to half a mile wide, twice that deep. Easily large enough to accommodate what Zorin needed.
Theo had said the back slope was nearly vertical, and smooth; what he hadn't said was that the others were virtually the same. Bare gray rock glinting now and then with chips of mica; a rare spot of green where a scrawny bush tried to take hold; their height at least one hundred feet before they angled away to their respective peaks.
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 faile
d."
"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.
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.
