Literally.
A slow wind drifted over the shops and houses. A dust devil darted out of an alley and collapsed at his feet.
The continued silence began to get on his nerves, and he found himself whistling under his breath just to hear some noise.
His right hand twitched.
Every few yards he looked over his shoulder, and saw nothing but twilight shadows slipping out of doorways and down from the eaves.
A broken bench lay in the mouth of an alley. He tore one of the long, stout legs off, just to have something in his hand.
Imaginary footfalls made him turn and walk backward a few paces.
Whispers from behind closed windows and doors.
A loose section of roof thatch rustling in the wind.
He stopped.
"All right," he said angrily. "That's enough."
Nothing changed, but the sound of his voice shattered the burgeoning apprehension that had settled over him. This was not the same as facing a Cyclops, or a Titan, or an army bent on a helpless village's destruction. But it was a duel nonetheless, between him and an enemy who this time happened to be a sorcerer.
A sorcerer, Hercules realized suddenly, who was in a hurry.
A wisp of a smile crossed his lips.
"Yes," he whispered as he broke into a trot. "Yes, by the gods, yes."
Dragar had power, no question about it. But if Aulma and Salmoneus were right, he had had this power not much more than half a year. And for most of that time, he had been testing it, searching for its limits, determining its control.
But he hadn't mastered it.
If he had, Hercules would have died out there in the woods.
This final locus of energy in the arena, the one that had knocked him senseless, only provided strength to Dragar, not knowledge.
Dragar was a sorcerer, but he still didn't think like one. He handled his magic like a sword, not like sorcery.
And swords, no matter what they were made of, could still be parried.
He sprinted through the south gate, aware now of the voice of the arena crowd. As he neared the small coliseum, he slowed to a brisk walk. Dozens of torches on high poles affixed to the top of the outer wall held back the gathering darkness, their flames in tight twists and spirals as the wind tried to rip them away. He heard cheers, some laughter, and the very faint sound of carefree music.
No one stood outside.
The performers would be waiting their turns at the north tunnel, Dragar undoubtedly among them.
Hercules went straight to the other entrance, keeping close to the wall. When he reached the gap, he looked around the corner and saw Delilah the Contortionist in the center of the floor. The tunnel itself was empty, and he slipped inside before anyone could spot him.
Thanks to the thatch roofing, there was no light here; until he stepped into the open, he would be invisible.
Switching the bench leg to his left hand, he eased along the wall, stopping at the edge of the torchlight's reach.
As far as he could tell, the arena was packed. The whole town and then some was jammed into the seats, and stood along the back wall on top. Some in the first row leaned so far over that he was sure more than one had already fallen over.
He couldn't see Peyra.
The other tunnel was dark as well. All he could see there was shadows and silhouettes.
Patience, he told himself; there's nothing to do now but wait.
He leaned against the wall and watched Delilah finish her routine. The applause deafened him; flowers were tossed after her as she danced into the exit. From the blossoms already littering the cobblestones, he knew that those who had preceded her had also been well received—as much in relief after the previous night's terror as in appreciation.
He suspected the performers didn't really care.
He grinned at the next act—Olivia Stellas and her declamation, an epic history of Phyphe as written by her own hand. By the amount of parchment she held, Phyphe had been around a really long time.
Then a voice said behind him, "She's really awful, isn't she?"
Hercules wasn't sure which would give out first— his legs or his heart. When neither did, it was a struggle not to wrap his fingers around Salmoneus' throat and throttle him until he turned as red as the garish gown Olivia wore.
Salmoneus lifted his shoulders in a heavy sigh. "I had to let every amateur who can toot on a reed in.
Thanks to you."
"What did I do?"
There was no need to whisper—Olivia's voice carried easily, loudly, and shrilly. Had she not been head of the town's ruling council, she probably would have been stoned before she finished the first page. As it was, the crowd quickly realized that lots of cheers and applause would drown most of her out.
There were a lot of cheers and applause.
"You told me to make the show as long as I could," Salmoneus reminded him glumly. He peered at him in the gloom. "You look dreadful, by the way."
"I look worse than 1 feel."
"Good thing." The chubby showman rubbed his hands together as if trying to keep warm. "Dragar is here. He keeps insisting he has to go on."
"Stall him."
"Why?"
Hercules watched Olivia reach the midway point in her declamation. "I want him as nervous as possible."
"Believe me, Hercules, if he gets more any more nervous, he's going to start shedding."
Hercules laughed and shook his head. It was a good feeling, and he slapped his friend's shoulder in gratitude.
Salmoneus didn't get it, but he returned the smile, albeit a little anxiously. "So what happens now?"
Olivia reached the last page; the walls trembled with the cheers and applause.
"Flovi," Hercules said.
"What?" Salmoneus yelped.
Hercules nodded. ' 'Flovi is next. Let him sing his heart out."
Then, as his friend's eyes widened in disbelief, he explained the rest of his plan.
"What?" Salmoneus yelped.
"Trust me, you'll be famous."
"What?" If Salmoneus' voice had gotten any higher, he would have punctured half the eardrums in the arena.
Hercules clamped his hands on the man's shoulders. "Just do it, Salmoneus. There's no time for explanations."
Salmoneus would have argued, but Olivia was done, the crowd was hysterical with relief, and Hercules shoved him out of the tunnel.
Then he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.
Listening as Salmoneus introduced Flovi.
Listening as the audience applauded politely.
Listening as Flovi, after several clearings of his throat and a couple of false starts, began ' 'That Old Tavern in the Hills," which was supposed to be a plaintive ballad about a man who lost his love, his cart, and his old dog to a traveling gambling man.
Hercules couldn't help it—he looked.
With the local band doing its best to force Flovi into the melody, Flovi sang his heart out, but not even that mellifluous baritone was able to mask the struggle.
The crowd was silent. Stunned, Hercules figured.
Finally Flovi stopped, lowered his head in abject defeat, and turned to leave.
It was all Hercules could do not to run after him, to console him, to urge him not to give up, not where his dreams were involved.
Suddenly, from the front row on the right, the silence was broken by a single note, the one Flovi couldn't find.
He stopped. He turned. He blinked rapidly in confusion.
The note sounded again.
Hercules eased forward, trying to find out who belonged to that voice, that note.
A woman in a drab brown dress stood, and sang the note again.
It was Merta, the stable girl.
Flovi started the ballad again, and this time Merta joined him. Not a missed note, not a missed beat—
what each lacked, the other now provided.
Magic, Hercules thought as he listened; absolute magic.
When they finished, the silence lasted several heartbeats; when it ended, the explosion of adulation was enough to bring tears to the eyes of those whose eyes weren't filled with tears already from the ballad.
Flovi raced to the wall, reached out his arms, and Merta leapt into them. They embraced, they walked back to the center of the arena, and Flovi nodded to a suddenly excited band.
Five more songs. Enough flowers and scarves and coins to bury a small city.
Three encores, more flowers and scarves and coins, and Hercules began to think it would keep up until dawn.
Finally Salmoneus darted out of the other tunnel and, promising that the Fantastic Country Duo would return, hustled them off, then wisely waited until the applause ended before returning.
He stared at the south tunnel, touched his beard, touched his heart.
Hercules took a deep breath; now or never, Salmoneus, don't screw it up.
Salmoneus faced the audience.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, for your amazement and your astonishment, the Salmoneus Traveling Theater of Fun is proud to present that king of prestidigitation, that monarch of magic, that emperor of—"
He yelped when a small green fireball struck him in the rump.
Then Dragar stepped out of the tunnel, and all the torches went out.
20
Hercules felt the audience holding its breath in anticipation, uncertain whether this was part of the act or a prelude to another disaster.
Then Dragar said, "Behold!" And the torches flared again.
He stood in the center of the arena, appearing taller than usual in a dark blue robe fringed and hemmed with braided gold thread. His hair was covered by a silver skullcap, his feet by glittering silver-and-red boots. The darkness of his beard made his face ghostly white; the flicker of the torchlight in his eyes made them glow a pale yellow.
The only thing missing was Aulma and her dancing.
A smattering of tentative applause signaled the audience's continuing misgivings, and even when Dragar smiled, bowed, and plucked blindingly white doves from his voluminous sleeves, to toss lightly into the air, the people still held back.
Hercules could smell it.
It was fear.
Dragar didn't appear to notice. He continued his routine as if nothing were amiss—beautiful doves and gaudy scarves from his sleeves, liquid fire poured like honey from a small jug into a smaller goblet, ribbons from his beard, the now-familiar fireballs that floated over his head and exploded silently into sparks that the wind took into the clouds. The only time he lost the smile was when he walked over to the arena's edge and looked up at a child as if to ask for her assistance, and she cowered against her mother's side.
After a long moment Dragar laughed. "The child knows a charlatan when she sees one," he announced as he returned to the center. "I do believe she has guessed my secrets."
A few people laughed with him, and he acknowledged them with a modest nod.
"But I think," he continued, one hand stroking his goatee, "this will change her mind."
He reached into his robe, frowned as he pretended not to find what he sought, then uttered an "Aha!" as he pulled out the black staff with the head of the silver ram.
This time the applause was a little louder, but it sounded brittle.
Hercules braced himself, wondering if perhaps he had waited too long.
"Behold!" Dragar cried.
"Yes, behold!" Salmoneus cried as he trotted from the other tunnel, waving to the audience and grinning like a madman. "Behold the extra-special attraction we have created just for you, the good and wonderful people of Phyphe."
Dragar glared at him, too angry to speak, too astonished to move.
"One time only!" Salmoneus announced at the top his near-squeaking voice, ignoring the fuming magician as he trotted awkwardly around the wall, grinning wildly at the faces turned toward him, confused and wondering. "Absolutely guaranteed one time only!"
The crowd began to stir, amused by the way Salmoneus couldn't seem to keep his sandals on and run at the same time. "Never before seen by human eyes!" Dragar reached out to grab his shoulder, but Salmoneus skipped away, tripped, almost fell, and bowed comically at the giggles and applause that came his way.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Salmoneus Traveling Theater of Fun proudly, and at great expense, presents .. . Dragar the Magician versus ... the Red Power Beast!"
And with a deep breath and silent prayer, Hercules stepped into the arena.
The audience didn't quite know what to make of it when they finally saw Hercules—if this was the Red Power Beast, where was that curly red thing he wore the other night? Where was the Beast? Where was the power? Unless, of course, he really was going to break a tree over his head, thus proving that he was a lot stronger than he looked.
Salmoneus couldn't smile any longer. He looked pleadingly at Hercules and raced off the floor.
Dragar only nodded. "So."
Hercules nodded. "Yes."
"You didn't die."
"You thought I would?"
"One can but hope."
Hercules shrugged.
Dragar laid a hand on his forehead, closed his eyes briefly, and exhaled loudly, making it clear he considered this less than a petty interruption.
"You can't fight me and win, you know. You've already seen that."
Hercules felt the stiffness in his shoulder and the faint throbbing in his head. But he shrugged as if to say that not every battle wins every war.
Dragar snorted. "You think your... your so-called divine status will be enough to stop me?"
"Oh, yes," Hercules promised him. "Oh, yes."
Only those in the first two rows could hear the exchange, and the arena quickly filled with the sound of those passing the conversation along to the rest of the crowd.
The whispering sounded like the wind.
"With what?" Dragar wanted to know. "Your thick skull? That ridiculous shirt? Or perhaps you're counting on those clumsy bare hands?"
Hercules looked at his hands. They were indeed empty; he had left the makeshift club back in the tunnel.
You know, his inner voice said, sometimes I wonder how you made it this far.
Idiot was the mildest thing he called himself then, plus a few things he knew would make his mother pass out.
But aloud he answered, "Sure."
Dragar rolled his eyes in disgust and lifted the staff over his head.
Hercules took a step toward him. "One chance," he offered mildly. "One chance to change your mind, Dragar, and stop this before someone gets hurt."
Dragar bared his teeth. "Hurt? Oh, my dear Hercules, if these peasant dolts only get hurt, they'll feel blessed by the gods."
Hercules felt his chest tighten as he glanced around him at the several hundred faces turned toward him—men, women, children, all leaning forward, their expressions intense.
Then a querulous voice called from the front row, "Excuse me? Mr. Dragar? You want to repeat that, please?"
Dragar swiveled his head around and glowered.
"Only fair, you know," the voice continued. "I mean, that Beast fellow doesn't look like much, you know what I mean? Beefy, but not terribly smart. Hardly worth the money. The least you can do is speak up."
Beefy? Hercules thought; hardly worth the money?
"Like this?" Dragar bellowed, thunder and lightning in his voice, amplified to such a degree that a few people uttered soft screams, and a few more covered their ears. The voice didn't answer; Hercules figured it belonged to the skinny guy now slumped over the wall. "One chance," he repeated. "Die," Dragar sneered. And the Eye of the Ram opened.
Bolts of fiercely orange light tried to spear Hercules' chest, but the arm guards deflected them one by one into the ground.
Fireballs circled like hawks over his head, but again the arm guards scattered them into sparks.
Hercules circled sideways to his left, and the bolts and fire followed; he changed direction, moving faster, ducking and do
dging while the sorcerous missiles exploded against the base of the wall.
The audience finally applauded; this was more like it.
Dragar's eyes narrowed in frustration. The faster he attacked, the faster Hercules moved out of way.
Hercules, for his part, smiled mockingly, hoping the man didn't yet understand that stalling had become a major part of his plan while he figured out what the rest of it was.
Meanwhile, Dragar's impatience was Hercules' strongest ally, and he used it by skipping a few steps while, at the same time, deflecting all that the sorcerer threw at him.
Dragar growled and bared his teeth again. His arms had a difficult time holding the ram aloft, and his aim suffered for it. Now the fireballs and firebolts more often than not slammed into the cobblestones.
Hercules bowed, although he kept his head up, his gaze on Dragar's narrowed eyes.
Some of the audience tittered, recognizing in this the bumbling magician they had seen in the first show.
"One chance," Hercules offered.
Dragar snarled, and out of the Eye snaked a long purple flare that pinwheeled low, then high, then whipped past Hercules into the wall.
He grunted and stared at his upper arm.
The audience saw the blood at the same time, and most of them belatedly understood that this wasn't an act at all.
Hercules gripped his arm just below the wound, willing the pain to a place where he couldn't feel it. He barely deflected the next attack, and the attack after that.
Dragar paused, breathing heavily, frowning as he considered his next move.
At the same time there was a palpable shift in the audience's reaction; a few tried to climb over the walls in back, not wanting to take a chance on the usual exits.
Dragar raised his arms again and shouted, "No!"
The staff spun; from the Eye came a continuous flow of glaring white that ended only when Dragar brought his arms down and set the butt of the staff on the ground near his right foot, his left hand pom-pously on his hip.
"You will go," he said, "when 1 say you can
go."
Hercules looked to the top of the arena and had to tighten his jaw to keep from groaning: a slow-moving white wall surrounded the coliseum. Every few seconds a blue or red spark flared and died within it.
Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 03 Page 13
