The Arms Of Hercules

by Fred Saberhagen

  The army had taken almost all the cameloids and droms that were of any use, and so the two of us had to walk to the grazing grounds. We made fairly good time, but still the journey took us almost two weeks, on roads that alternated between dust and mud, depending on the weather.

  As familiar territory fell behind, and the road ahead opened more or less straight and clear into the unknown, the gloom that had hung over me since the death of Linus began to lift. Enkidu helped to raise my spirits, too; he was a cheerful, energetic rascal most of the time, telling jokes and propounding riddles, looking forward to a repeat of what must have been a pleasant adventure for him during the previous summer. Sometimes during that two-week hike my companion and I were fortunate enough to find a hospitable farm, and sometimes we slept under the stars. One night when it was raining, we were lucky enough to find a hollow tree big enough to let us put our heads inside.

  We heard nothing about any lion until the fifth or sixth day out, when we encountered an itinerant peddler who was trekking in the opposite direction, tugging the reins of a llamoid that bore in its panniers his meager stock in trade, tightly covered to protect it from the rain. According to the story this wanderer told us, the herds that we were going out to watch were being steadily depleted by, and one herder had already been killed by, an enormously powerful and savage beast, a great cat whose hide through some unnatural magic was proof against the point or edge of any weapon.

  Neither my nephew nor I had ever laid eyes on any feline bigger than the household tabby. And I suppose neither of us was overly imaginative, at least not enough to be frightened by the story the peddler told. Rather we were intrigued—a lion seemed to promise some excitement in what might otherwise have been a boring job.

  Enkidu had seen enough of me in recent years, observed enough in the way of occasional secret demonstrations, to have some awareness of my awesome physical strength, a factor that no one else in the city or on the estate, not even Amphitryon, had yet fully appreciated. As I may have mentioned already, there was nothing about me at first glance to give the secret away. At the age of sixteen I was coming to terms with the fact that I was never going to be above the average height. My hands were on the small side for a man's, my wrists still relatively thin, arms and shoulders quite ordinary in appearance, revealing nothing of the invisible might that coiled within. What I had not yet begun to understand was the full extent of my own powers.

  Among the few items I carried with me into temporary exile were a quiver of arrows and a heavy bow, both, as I have mentioned, parting gifts from my foster father, bestowed before either Amphitryon or I had any idea that I would soon encounter a lion on which to try them out. The bow was so heavy in the pull that only the strongest men could draw it and shoot with any accuracy. It was elegantly made and decorated, and I am sure that Amphitryon would have kept it with him except that he, who by ordinary standards was far from weak, found it impossible to aim steadily.

  Despite Enkidu's having made the long journey to the herding range once before, he still managed to lose his way as we drew near our goal. But after an extra day or two of wandering, my companion and I eventually located the herds belonging to several owners, about a thousand animals in all, gathered in one place. Naturally the grass in the immediate area was rapidly depleted, and the herd had to be kept almost continually, if slowly, moving.

  On our arrival, the herdsmen turned out to be a small pack of frightened boys, fewer than a dozen in all. When they saw that newcomers had arrived, they slowly gathered around us.

  Their leader, a tall youth called Tarn, gave us a cool welcome and seemed to be determined that we should be properly frightened, at least of the lion if not of him. He introduced us to the others, a scrubby crew varying in age from ten years to about fourteen, of assorted shapes and coloring. Some, like Enkidu and I, were clad in herders' shirts, others wore nothing but belts to hold their slings or knives. They were armed with an assortment of poor-looking weapons, including blades, slings, and simple sticks.

  We soon learned that our new colleagues, particularly after dark, spent as much time huddled fearfully together as the animals did. And they were interested in me. Word of what had happened to Linus had already reached them; news of such violent and dramatic events always got around fast. I was only surprised that the truth had not yet been greatly exaggerated.

  But talk of the lion naturally dominated everything else. All the boys swore that they had seen the beast again and again, though no two of them gave exactly the same description. All agreed that it was a fearsome monster indeed, and of a gigantic size.

  Fear is one of the more contagious ailments, and Enkidu and I began to feel a touch uneasy.

  The cattle tattooed with Amphitryon's brand, about two hundred animals in all, were mixed in with those of other owners, several varieties of sheep and mutant cows and steers all jumbled together. Until a few days ago there had been a herd bull, a fierce animal who had challenged the lion and had been promptly eaten.

  "We wanted to get the animals all in one place," one of the more talkative lads, who had been on duty for the last few months, told me. As I immediately suspected, the truth was that with the lion prowling almost every night, and sometimes during the day, the boys all wanted to stay together, for which I could hardly blame them.

  The more experienced herders among them explained to me that the traditional plan for trying to fend off a large and active predator called for three watch fires to be built each night, and the herd kept inside the triangle as much as possible; of course it was often hard to scrape up enough fuel for one good watch fire, let alone three. The animals were so frightened that they stayed without much wandering. Of course it would not have taken much to launch them all in a stampede. "Since the lion usually comes at night, I doubt your bow would be of much use," observed the leader of the herd boys, "even if it wasn't much too thick for you. Unless you can see in the dark?" Tarn was determined to hang on to his leadership, such as it was, especially as he was a couple of inches taller than me, though probably a little younger. I think it cost him a valiant effort not to be impressed by the fact that I had not only killed a man—no one else in our crew had done as much—but had somehow escaped serious punishment for the deed.

  I thought of demonstrating how easily I could draw the bow, then offering to let him try. But at that tender age leadership had no more attraction for me than it does now; it is a burden I unwillingly assume when necessary and drop again as soon as I am able, because in my view it brings unpleasantness at best. "Afraid not," was all I said.

  "We hoped they would send men this time." This from the second-oldest of my new colleagues.

  "All the young men older than me are busy with the war. And none of the old men want to do this kind of work. Besides, when we left home, no one there had even heard about your lion."

  "But," I added after a moment, "I might be man enough to deal with it." I suppose it was only the calm tone in which I spoke that forestalled an outbreak of derisive laughter.

  Tarn thought about it, then demanded: "If you're sixteen, why aren't you in the army?"

  "I just turned sixteen on the way here." I wasn't going to try to explain that my parents had kept me out of the army because of their deep though unspoken fear that I would mangle someone—not an enemy, but some comrade in arms who, according to the rules, ought not to be mangled. Probably it had even occurred to them that whatever violence I might commit in this remote place would be more easily ignored or covered up.

  At that age I had as little acquaintance with physical pain as I had with serious fear. No doubt my claim sounded to my new associates like idle boasting, but I meant it only as hopeful speculation. Having lived all my life with my extraordinary powers, I felt confident that they would see me through an encounter with a lion as effectively as they had through confrontations with snakes and music teachers. I wasn't absolutely confident, no, not quite—but what doubts I had were no more than enough to excite a certain sense
of danger, and only to the level where it was still pleasurable.

  One of my listeners, at least, was not convinced by my offhand optimism. "Deal with it how?" Tarn asked, going back to the subject of the lion. He was still looking dubiously at my oversized bow.

  "We'll see. I'll do the best I can." And I turned away, avoiding argument. That had become my habit, more than ever, in the weeks since Linus lay in the courtyard with his eyes turned for the last time to the sky.

  Unlike most of the other herders, who kept finding various honorable reasons not to undertake the job, I readily took my turn, and even volunteered for an extra one, walking between small watch fires in the dark.

  On the next night after our arrival, the lion came again, terrorizing the herd, and killed again. I heard the great beast roar, but wanted to wait for better light before trying to do anything about it.

  When the first light of dawn arrived, there the predator still was, great mane and tawny hide and switching tail, crouched in the middle of what was now an otherwise deserted plain. The successful hunter was still feeding leisurely on its kill, a steer with its throat torn out. Most of the other boys were looking at me, ready to be amused as soon as I presented them with whatever good reason I might have found for not approaching the enemy just now. But I paid my audience little attention and instead began to walk steadily toward the lion. Enkidu stayed with me, only a step behind.

  With the impatience of youth, and well aware that my aim was less than expert, I loosed my first shaft at what I considered long range, something more than a hundred yards. My bow was bent far enough to propel the arrow with tremendous force. But unfortunately I missed the mark by several yards, so badly that with majestic scorn the lion ignored my efforts. Not till my third shot did I manage to hit the beast, squarely on its wide flank, with a broad-blade hunting arrow. The boys behind me drew in breath with a collective gasp as the keen-pointed shaft only bounced off.

  The lion turned its head, gave us a look, and unhurriedly went back to feeding.

  Now we had solid evidence confirming the rumors that this was no purely natural beast. Odylic magic was involved.

  In a quiet voice, Enkidu, standing beside me, said: "Then it's true, what the stories say, about sharp points and edges, how they can't dig into its hide."

  I grunted something. We might indeed be facing powerful magic, but I had no intention of giving up. The other herders stayed where they were, well in the rear, watching, desperately gripping their inadequate weapons.

  "If I bend the bow any farther," I muttered, "it'll break. Or the string will." And that was exactly what happened on the next shot. The tough cord snapped and lashed me, imprinting a line of what would have been fiery pain on any mortal human arm save mine.

  The boys squinted at me from a distance, as if getting a more detailed look might help them understand just how I had managed to break the string on a bow that none of them could have begun to pull. Tarn, who had been anxious about maintaining his leadership, was now as silent as the rest. Eventually, on his making a reasonably courteous request, I had let him try the bow, and he had strained his thin arms to draw it without having much effect.

  Now I violently blasphemed the various bodily parts of several gods and cast away the useless stick, trailing a length of broken bowstring. Clenching my fists, I looked around me in frustration.

  Had I had any experience with a shepherd's sling, I suppose I would have borrowed one and tried it; as matters stood, I had no reason to think that I could hit the beast with a slung stone in more than one out of a dozen, or maybe a hundred, tries. I would be at least as likely to brain one of my companions, no matter where they stood. With a little imagination, I could picture that kind of performance rendering the great beast helpless with laughter—I supposed it was not entirely impossible that a magic lion could laugh.

  Still, such missiles did not depend on sharp points or edges to do their damage, and on thinking the matter over I doubtless would have tried to borrow a sling, except that the lion had turned to look at us once more, with an attitude of speculation, and when I looked around again the other herders had all retreated to an even greater distance. Except, of course, for Enkidu, who, though far from cowardly then or later, was careful to stay close to my side.

  When the lion had made its latest kill, the herd had scattered, as it usually did when one of its number was brought down. The others had dispersed quickly to a distance of a couple of hundred yards. But once the predator settled down to eat, some instinct evidently told them that they were safe again for the time being, and they stopped running and resumed their life's work of turning what grass they could find into meat and milk and dung.

  After the shot that broke the bowstring struck near the lion, kicking up dust from the rocky soil, the beast coughed a little roar and regally prepared to withdraw. But there was no thought of abandoning its dinner. Once more sinking its fangs into the fresh carcass, it gave a single heave and slung the inert mass over one shoulder. Then it walked away, carrying the dead weight greater than its own with the ease of a man wearing a small traveling pack.

  Shrugging off the useless quiver of arrows, in my frustration I hurled them scattering to the ground. "I'm going after the beast," I told my nephew. "You can stay here with the others, if you like, and watch the cattle."

  "No need to watch the stock while the lion's gone," Enkidu protested. "I'm coming with you. I know how to track," he added hopefully, after a moment.

  Obviously my nephew's confidence in my abilities was at least as great as my own, and I found that somehow reassuring.

  "All right," I agreed. At the moment the lion was still in sight, and I did not need a tracker. But before going after it I wanted to arm myself with some more effective weapon.

  The twelve-year-old looked back toward our timid colleagues, then suggested: "One of these others might loan you a sword."

  "I've seen their swords; you borrow one if you want. And bring a waterskin. No, if an arrowhead won't pierce the damned thing's hide, I'll bet a blade won't, either."

  "You could try thrusting right down its throat."

  I looked at my helpful colleague. "I'm going to try a club." I might have thrown rocks at the lion, of course, but again I distrusted my aim.

  "Are you sure?"

  "No, I said I was going to try."

  Pacing away in a direction opposite to that taken by the beast, I climbed a nearby hillside where there were scattered trees. Such fallen trunks as were available proved on close inspection to be soft and rotten, so I soon found myself engaged in the difficult business of cutting and tearing a big club out of a live tree. Picking up an edged rock as the best tool available for severing and breaking wood, I hacked and splintered the green, live trunk of a wild olive into an approximation of the shape I wanted. The task took me the better part of an hour, while Enkidu stood watching in near silence.

  My weapon, when I had finished shaping it, tearing away with my fingers the last unwanted bark and splinters, was about five feet long and almost straight. The thick end was as big around as my leg, the small end much thinner, enabling me to grip it comfortably. The wood was springy and heavy, and when I swung it hard it sighed nicely in the air, with faint whistling overtones.

  * * *

  By the time I had finished these preparations, the lion of course was out of sight again. Silently my nephew led the way to the spot where we had seen it last. Casting around there, he soon picked up its trail.

  We had to follow the beast across half a mile or so of barren ground, and around another hill or two. In this effort my nephew's tracking ability proved of considerable help.

  We came around yet another hillock in the great plain, and there the lion was, not a hundred yards away. It had dropped its burden and was once more chewing contentedly. We were close enough to hear the bigger bones crunch sharply, as if a man were cracking nuts. A few scavenger birds had begun to circle overhead.

  This time when the lion raised its head, d
isplaying a bloody muzzle, I had the feeling that it recognized me as the one who had been shooting arrows; and by now it was tired of being pestered. The beast once more coughed a short roar in our direction. I suppose our antagonist viewed two young humans more in the category of dessert than as a serious challenge, but was gentleman enough to give us a warning anyway.

  As we began our final approach, Enkidu's sandaled footfalls, which at first sounded only a pace or two behind me, fell more and more slowly, and farther and farther to my rear. That was fine with me; I needed no tracker at this point, and if my club swung wildly, I did not want my kinsman to be at risk. He was a brave lad, with a lot of confidence in me, but a real lion is a real lion, and I had to admit that this one seemed to grow ever larger as I approached.

  I suppose that if my former mathematics tutor had been at my side, and I discussing the business with him, I might have described my state of mind at that moment as 90 percent certain of victory. If there was only a 10 percent chance that the lion would be able to rend me limb from limb and eat the pieces—well, that chance did not seem real at all. Sixteen-year-olds are almost universally convinced of their own personal immortality.

  Now only a hundred feet separated me from my quarry, and I plodded steadily on. The lion looked away from me again and around the barren landscape, as if in search of witnesses who might later be called to testify to my insane behavior. Then it looked back. It raised its head and coughed once more, seemingly puzzled by this two-footed creature of less than half its size, who kept inexorably advancing.

  Something in the way the animal turned its head to one side suddenly reminded me of Linus. And like Linus, it felt perfectly confident of its own authority, even when confronted with things it did not understand. Or was my own confidence all a horrible miscalculation, and was I going to be eaten? But it was now much too late to entertain such doubts.