Hercules: The Legendary Journeys Two Book Collection (Juvenile)

by David L. Seidman

  No one’s going to win, he realized. The armies seemed so evenly matched that neither side could defeat the other. Everyone would be killed. For nothing.

  Up ahead, through the trees, not only could he hear men but he was also starting to see some of them. Vicius’ squad was gaining on the rest of the army.

  The rearguard was a solid row of soldiers, shoulder to shoulder. A leather cap covered each man’s skull from his forehead back to the top of his spine. Leather boots protected his feet. Every soldier wore an armoured vest from his shoulder to his hips. Strapped to the back of each vest was a bow and a quiver of arrows. Strapped to each thigh was a holster carrying a club that each one had customized to his particular taste: sharp points, poisoned tips, hard edges, flammable coatings and more.

  Some of the soldiers, apparently specialists, carried other weapons. One had a sling, a whip coiled around the arm of another, while yet another was covered with leather scabbards nailed on to his armour, in which a dozen different knives were stored.

  There were more soldiers than Hercules could take in. The line seemed endless, stretching further than he could see without turning his head. The row of men marched straight forward, perfectly in step with each other.

  Vicius jabbed Hercules with his club. “Turn right. Run!” he commanded.

  Hercules swallowed his anger and began a slow trot after Vicius, just slightly faster than a quick march. Behind him, he could hear his fellow prisoners and guards jogging along too.

  They passed the end of the army’s back rank of soldiers.

  “Left,” Vicius commanded, and Hercules turned. He ran past the back row, then the penultimate row, then the next, his pace never slackening.

  As he ran, Hercules was able to catch glimpses of the soldiers he passed. In the starlight, dappled into a patchwork by the shadows of trees and leaves, he saw marching infantry, mounted cavalry, heavily laden weapons bearers, swift-darting perimeter scouts and a dozen other types of soldier.

  He tried to count the rows of men; there were well over forty. The rows were getting shorter as he ascended the ridge. Now he was passing rows of fewer than a dozen men. He remembered the army’s triangular formation. They must be nearing the front, he reasoned.

  Finally, as they approached the top of the rise, they passed a row of only two men. Like Vicius, they wore shoulder-to-hip sashes, but while his was a captain’s blue, theirs were shining silver. Hercules had no doubt that the colour signalled a very high rank, far higher than Vicius’.

  Beyond the two soldiers, well ahead of the rest of the advancing troops, four ordinary foot soldiers held four posts of a large, tall tent of golden silk. The men marched in perfect time to keep the tent a true square with a taut top, with its hem a few inches off the ground. The cloth front wall of tent was swept back on to the tent’s roof, allowing whoever was inside to see where they were going.

  Hercules peered at the gap between the tent’s hem and the ground. He saw the legs of a horse and a pair of sandalled feet jogging alongside them.

  It was odd. The tent was enormous—wider and longer than most houses. Why reserve that much space for one man and a horse?

  Vicius’ club bashed him on the chest. “Turn left. We’re going into the tent.”

  The horse was an enormous golden palomino. A man was jogging beside it, as thin as a pencil, his skin and hair as white as milk. The servant, a short man, was jogging alongside, holding his arms almost straight up, presenting a tray of tiny candied fruits to the man astride the horse’s smooth, burgundy-leather saddle.

  The man on the horse wore a gleaming golden vest, a silk shirt of matching gold and satin leggings the colour of a sunrise. He carried no weapons.

  Still running to keep up with the tent’s uphill advance, Hercules recognized the horseman’s face. Before he could speak, however, the rest of the prisoners and guards began flowing in through the flap, crowding the inside of the tent.

  To avoid the crush, Hercules increased his pace and ran to the front wall of the tent. He turned and, running backwards, looked up at the face of the rider.

  “Hello, ‘Slaughterius’,” he said with an edge of contempt in his voice.

  “Why, isn’t this nice?” said the impostor. “Hello again, clown.” He looked round the room and saw Cactus and Salmoneus. “And I see you’ve brought friends. How lovely!”

  The real Slaughterius hobbled into the tent, wheezing. “Oh. You again,” sneered the phoney. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  He caught Cactus’ eye and waved him forward. The giant jogged side by side with Hercules. “Oh my . . . two of you big boys. Remarkable. You must be formidable in a fight.”

  The phoney Slaughterius glanced over Hercules’ shoulder and out of the tent. “Halt!” he shouted.

  Instantly, the tent’s holders stopped running and the tent was still. Hercules nearly fell over as he braked. He could hear the two men at the head of the pyramid of troops shouting ‘Halt!” and other officers further down the rows of men repeating the order to their men.

  ‘Slaughterius’ swung a leg over his saddle, sitting sideways on the horse. The servant who had been presenting him with the candied fruits immediately set the tray on the ground and fell to his hands and knees.

  The phoney slid off the saddle and landed, feet first, on the servant’s back. The man sagged in the middle and winced but stayed steady. Standing there, ‘Slaughterius’ surveyed the scene. He appeared to enjoy being well above those around him.

  He pointed a limp finger at Salmoneus and the real Slaughterius. “Take those two back to the city,” he told Vicius.

  Hercules opened his mouth to object but Slaughterius spoke first. “Don’t worry, Hercules. We’ll be fine. With a war on the way, we’re probably safest behind the city walls.”

  The captain nodded at the guards surrounding the pedlar and the politician. They herded the men out as if they were leading pigs to a pen. Vicius and a dozen other guards stayed to keep an eye on Hercules and Cactus.

  ‘Slaughterius’ stepped down from the back of his servant, who sighed gratefully. He then paced around Hercules and Cactus, eyeing their muscles. He approached them from behind and slung his arms over their shoulders.

  “Now tell me,” he trilled, “why don’t you join my side? With you two working for me, I could easily wipe out the Mercantilians.”

  Hercules pushed off the man’s arm; Cactus did likewise.

  “Listen to me,” Hercules said urgently. “You can’t wipe them out. You and the Mercs are too evenly matched. If you fight them, you’ll only get your own troops hurt.” He tried to catch the general’s eye. “But you don’t have to fight them.”

  Hercules was not used to making speeches, but he poured all of his passion into this one. The Pastoralian and Mercantilian armies would destroy each other, he said. Then the dead men’s loved ones would vow revenge. He’d seen plenty of wars and that’s the way they always worked out.

  Needing fresh soldiers and supplies, the Mercantilians and Pastoralians would force citizens from other, smaller towns to choose sides and fight. The entire island of Peloponnesus would become a battlefield.

  Other nations and city-states would avoid the dangerous island. Merchants would not come. No food, clothing, building supplies or other necessities would replace the ones that the war destroyed. People would be destitute.

  And when the fighting finally ended, Hercules reasoned, when enough people got sick of destruction and feuding, the pain would go on. The Peloponnesians would face years of poverty as they tried to rebuild their burnt-out cities and revive their ravaged farms.

  No one would trust anyone else ever again. City-states would never trade with the old enemy. Sooner or later, war would flare up again. Generations of death and fire and pain and hatred and—

  “That’s not true!” cried the impostor calling himself Slaughterius. He couldn’t face H
ercules and one of his hands was shaking. His face had gone bone white. “You’re . . . you’re lying!” He grabbed Hercules by the shoulders and shook him. “You must be lying!” he insisted desperately.

  Behind Hercules, Vicius’ soldiers looked at each other, worried. The only thing worse than a blood-thirsty military commander was an unpredictably crazy one. Vicius growled at the nervous guards to shut up, face the front and stand to attention.

  The phoney general nervously ran his palms down the front of his breastplate as if it were a shirt that he had wrinkled and needed to smooth. He stopped as he realized that he was trying to smooth beaten gold with his bare hands. For a moment, his hands hovered in midair. He reminded Hercules of a young teenage boy at his first dance, unsure of whether his hands belonged behind his back, at his side or inside his tunic.

  He turned away from Hercules but peered at the demi-god out of the corner of his eyes. “If,” he began slowly, in a weak and quaking voice, “if I did want to stop this war . . . how would I go about it?” In a deeper voice, he quickly added, “Not that I do want to stop it. You’re lying about all that devastation and pain, of course. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Hercules was silent.

  When ‘Slaughterius’ spoke again, his voice was gentler and he sounded less certain. Even his eyes seemed softer. “But if I did want to stop the war, what would I do?”

  Hercules spoke carefully. “Well . . . I’d talk to Ferocius, the Merc general. He’s in charge of the troops now.”

  “Mm,” the Pastoralian grunted. “I see. I don’t believe you, of course, but—hmm.” He paced back and forth, mumbling to himself.

  Hercules leaned forward and spoke quietly into his ear. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You want to negotiate a peace settlement, but you don’t know how. I know your city’s history; you’ve never done anything like this before. Let me help. I want you to get the peace you want.”

  The phoney’s eyebrows shot up. He would not admit that Hercules had hit upon any kind of truth. “Nonsense!” he shouted, too loudly and too fast.

  Hercules held back a smile. You’re a liar, he thought. Just like Vicius. You’re scared of war, you just won’t admit it, tough guy.

  ‘Slaughterius’ calmed himself. “I have work to do.” He turned to Hercules. “And you can help me do it.” He glanced at Cactus and then back at Hercules. “This colossus—he’s with you?”

  Hercules nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Good,” the general said. “I have a mission for you two. Servilius!”

  “Down here, sir,” squeaked his servant, still on his hands and knees.

  “Oh, do get up, Servilius,” the general snapped. “Fetch me ink, a quill, some parchment and sealing wax. And get the blue bag from my luggage bearers.”

  The old servant straightened up, joints cracking and popping. He disappeared around the general’s horse and quickly returned with a blank scroll, a long, ink-dipped feather and a sky-blue sack tied with a drawstring.

  ‘Slaughterius’ took the parchment and quill from his servant, turned away and scribbled something. Then he turned back and offered Hercules the paper, now folded into quarters and sealed shut with wax. “Take this message to the leader of Mercantilius,” he said. “You’re not one of my soldiers, so he may trust you.” Hercules took the paper. “And don’t read it! It’s none of your business.”

  Sighing, Hercules tucked the message into his belt.

  “Now, for you,” the general went on, taking the bag from his servant and handing it to Cactus, “you will give this to the Mercantilian leader as a—” He cut himself off. “Well, just give it to him.”

  Hercules sniffed the air. A fresh, tart smell was rising from the saddlebag. “What’s in there?”

  “I told you,” the general snapped. “None. Of. Your. Business!” He stepped towards Hercules, glaring into his eyes. “Is that clear?”

  Some kind of plant, Hercules thought. What kind of plant would he want to send the Mercs?

  “Get going,” the general ordered.

  A rose would mean love, Hercules thought, but I’m sure he doesn’t love old General Ferocius. In the background, he could hear ‘Slaughterius’ yelling for Vicius.

  “Sir!” the captain shouted, dashing to face his general.

  “Position your archers in front of my tent. If they go in any other direction than Mercantilius, shoot them.” The general swept back to his horse. The old servant dropped to the floor.

  Hercules heard the order and knew the general was trying to scare them into taking the right direction. As they started climbing to the rise’s tree-lined rim, the son of Zeus continued thinking about the contents of Cactus’ sack. A lily means death, Hercules thought. An olive branch means peace—

  Hercules grinned. It’s a peace offering! He fingered the parchment in his belt. This’ll be a message offering peace talks. Hercules and Cactus neared the top of the ridge. Hercules looked over his shoulder and smiled at ‘Slaughterius.”

  Gotcha, you old liar! he thought.

  Vicius’ archers had trained their arrows at him, but he didn’t care.

  The troops were starting to rearrange themselves. The triangular shape was changing. The men marched into a semicircle, the two arms starting just below the top of the ridge and curving inward to meet at about a quarter of the way downhill.

  Hold on! Hercules’ brow furrowed. That’s not the formation that a man planning peace would order!

  He heard a low buzzing. He glanced down at the sack in Cactus’ hand. Several flies were diving towards the bag, attracted by the smell. He noticed one creature’s flight path wavering. As it neared the bag, the fly suddenly plunged to the ground; so did the others. Every fly getting within three feet of the bag was dying.

  Poison, Hercules realized. That’s no olive branch in there. Whatever plant is in the bag, it’s lethal!

  If Ferocius takes the plant out of the bag and holds it in his bare hands, it’ll kill him.

  Hercules looked over his shoulder at ‘Slaughterius,” who was grinning as he watched Hercules and Cactus walk away.

  All those hints that he really wanted peace, they were just an act. Hercules raged inside. That liar’s sending us to kill the leader of his enemies. Hercules glanced at Cactus. He might be getting poisoned right now, just from holding the sack. Maybe he should drop it and run.

  As he opened his mouth to warn his companion, Hercules could hear Vicius telling one of his archers to watch his aim.

  Drop and run? That won’t work. They’ll shoot us both. Hercules thought. But I’ve got to get Cactus away from that bag without letting those soldiers know what I’m doing. And fast.

  Hercules snatched the sack out of Cactus’ hands and shouted, “You traitor! You liar!”

  Cactus was so startled he could not speak.

  Hercules turned to the golden tent. “Did you hear what he just whispered?” he yelled. He whirled and pointed at the giant. “He said he wanted the Mercantilians dead!”

  “Hercules,” Cactus cried, “I didn’t! I—”

  Hercules picked the giant up with both hands and threw him down at Vicius’ archers, sending them tumbling into the tent flaps. “He wants to kill General Ferocius!” Hercules shrieked. “Slaughterius, I know you want to make peace. Well, I’m going to make sure you do. I’m going to see the general myself—alone!”

  He marched back up the hillside. That ought to do it, he thought. No matter what Cactus says, they’ll believe that he wants the Mercantilians dead, just as they do. They’ll think he’s on their side. Cactus is safe.

  “Hercules?” came the soft, musical tones of the phoney general.

  Hercules turned and looked down at the Pastoralians. Cactus, he saw, was back up on his feet. ‘Slaughterius’ nodded at Vicius. A dozen bowstrings twanged. A dozen arrows hit home. Cactus fell.

>   Hercules sprinted down to the tent but it was too late. Far too late. He cradled the huge man in his arms and howled.

  ‘Slaughterius’ chuckled behind him. “Oh, Hercules,” he sneered; ‘you poor fool. You should never try to deceive the master of deception.” He pointed his little finger at his own chest.

  Hercules looked up. He saw only a wet blur; his eyes were heavy with tears. “You knew?” he asked. “You knew I was lying?”

  “Obviously,” the general said. “Too bad, though, I was really hoping that you two would take the poison to the Mercantilians.” The general began striding forward. The tent moved with him and swept past Hercules, heading on up towards the top of the ridge.

  Vicius and four of his men left the tent and surrounded Hercules. “Get up!” he commanded. “The general can still use a strong boy like you.”

  Hercules shot to his feet. With a tiger’s roar, he shoved past Vicius and sprang towards the general’s tent. He ran inside, every sinew ready for battle.

  Within the tent, the other guardsmen hurriedly formed a wall between their general and Hercules. Enraged, Zeus’ son grabbed them by their necks, hurling them out of his way as he powered towards his enemy.

  Vicius whistled as he strode towards the tent. Twenty soldiers leapt from the army’s ranks and hurtled into the tent. They piled into Hercules, but he just slung them off, one by one, not caring where they landed or who got hurt. He trudged up towards the impostor, dragging one soldier who had wrapped his arms around his knee, ignoring another who was pounding his back.

  A few more steps and the thin, cowardly neck of ‘Slaughterius’ would be in his hand. Hercules reached out to grab him. The soldier around his leg pulled it backwards. Hercules kicked him away.

  The phoney general turned, glanced at Hercules and looked at one of his tent bearers. “Now, please,” he said simply.

  As one, the tent bearers whipped the fabric into the air, then clapped it flatly to the ground well away from the battle. Hercules looked around. His head poked over the high ridge. He could see the dawn sliding over the other side, towards him.