Hercules: The Legendary Journeys Two Book Collection (Juvenile) (3 page)

Listen to me! Hercules shouted. But six of Ferocius' guardsmen were rushing towards him, their daggers raised.

Hercules swept Salmoneus behind him. “Get out of here!”

“Erm, Herc . . .” Salmoneus started.

Hercules turned to find more soldiers charging from behind. Salmoneus dived to the ground. The spearmen tripped over him, hitting the ground in a snarl of arms, legs and sharp points.

Hercules turned to the soldiers before him and grabbed the nearest. Holding his wrist, he swung him into the others, knocking them flying.

The soldiers behind Hercules clambered to their feet and thrust their spears forward. Hercules swerved aside and jerked two spears from the soldiers' hands. He whirled them around before him and six daggers went flying. Suddenly weaponless, the soldiers all decided upon a simpler tactic: as one, they jumped on top of Hercules.

The men pinned Hercules to the ground. A chain-mailed fist thumped into his jaw. More and more men jumped on top. Suddenly everything went very still.

“Hercules!” Salmoneus shouted, afraid. He ran towards the stack of men.

Ferocius climbed to the top of the pile. “Don't let him up,” he commanded. From his high perch, he looked around at the townsfolk. “Honorius! Get up here. And you, fat man! And you, Peuris, get up here too. We're going to pile on top of this traitor until we crack every bone in his body.”

Several more people began reluctantly to clamber on to the pile.

Suddenly, with a powerful upward shove, Hercules threw the soldiers into the air. Arms and legs flailing, they flew in all directions before slamming to the ground.

Everyone on their feet backed away in a wide circle. Hercules stood up wearily.

“Herc, you did it!” Salmoneus crowed.

The soldiers came howling back, the cadets close behind. General Ferocius led the charge personally, Honorius at his side. Swords swung and spears thrust. Hercules dodged and swung his fists, but some blows got through. Someone grabbed his hair; someone else thumped his stomach.

Peuris' face pushed through the crush. “Kill you! Kill you!” the boy was screaming. Hercules ducked his dagger but it came whirling back.

Suddenly a long, heavy sword was swinging down. Hercules could see immediately that it was going to miss him. But he could also see that it was going to cut off Peuris' head.

Without thinking, he raised his hand and caught the sword. It cut into his flesh, making him cry out loud, but he'd succeeded in stopping the sword.

One of the soldiers whirled around and swept aside all of the weapons aiming at Hercules. “Stop! Stop!” Honorius was shouting.

The soldiers stepped back.

Ferocius stood at the front of the crowd of soldiers and pointed his sword tip at Honorius. “What's going on?”

“This man saved my son,” Honorius panted. “A sword—your sword, general—was going to behead my boy. Didn't you see? Hercules stopped your blade. He risked injury to save a cadet who—I'm sorry, son—who wanted to kill him. We've misjudged him.”

Ferocius did not lower his sword. “He's a traitor. Men, listen to me—”

“I've got an idea,” said Salmoneus. The pedlar had seen the whole thing. “It's simple. You think Hercules is a traitor. However, he's proved by saving the boy's life that he's got some wonderful qualities. Is he good or bad? There's evidence on both sides. So you need a tie-breaker. Give him a chance to show that he's really a great guy and on your side.”

Honorius nodded. “Sounds reasonable. General?”

Ferocius looked annoyed. The smooth talker did sound reasonable, but Ferocius didn't like reasonable people. They made him seem unreasonable in contrast.

“Very well,” he began. “Hercules, or whoever you are, since you destroyed our secret boulder, I want you to sneak into Pastoralis and bring back their most valuable weapon. By tomorrow night. We think they're planning to attack the following dawn and I want their weapon before that happens.”

Hercules pulled himself to his full height. “Very well,” he agreed. “I'll get their weapon. What is it?”

Ferocius grinned widely. “It's the head of General Slaughterius, the Pastoralian leader.”

“Wait a minute!” Hercules protested. “I am not bringing back anyone's head!”

Ferocius stared back. “Very well. Men, on my command . . .”

As one, the soldiers raised their weapons. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Salmoneus said soothingly. “There's an easy way to fix this situation. Don't kill Hercules. Send him to the Pastoralians with whatever orders you want—but send someone to monitor him and ensure that he carries out your orders. Simple!”

Ferocius grumbled. “Very well. You go with him!”

“Me?” Salmoneus backed away, but only until he hit the breastplate of a burly soldier behind him. “No, no. You see, I'm a businessman, not a fight—”

“You!” Ferocius repeated. “And if he's not back here by tomorrow night with Slaughterius' head, it will be your head. On a platter.”

Salmoneus gulped.

“All right, everyone, show's over,” Honorius shouted. “Soldiers and cadets, fall in. Back to barracks, march!” Honorius then turned to Hercules and Salmoneus. “Come with me. I'll find you a place to rest and get some ointment and bandages for those wounds.”

He led them to a hut with reed walls and roof. Inside stood a wooden table and bench. A filthy mat lay on the floor. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the roof.

“It's the only building we've got spare.” Honorius shrugged. “You can fetch water from the well. Food will have to wait until the morning. Good night.”

With that, he left.

“Well, this is great,” Salmoneus began. “You have to kill someone and I have to help you or die.”

“Relax,” Hercules said, rubbing his aching back.

“I will not!” Salmoneus whined. “We've got to get out of here. Look, I don't want them to go to war either, but it's their choice. Why not let them live their own lives?”

“It's not their choice. A god is using them for some reason.”

“You're going to get us both killed,” Salmoneus grumbled. He sat down on the mat. “I'll bet the only thing that would make you happier was if someone were sneaking up on us, intending to kill us right now.”

“Someone is,” Hercules said softly.

“What?” Salmoneus jumped. “Are you sure? Hercules, you have to protect mmffgh—”

Hercules clamped a hand over his mouth. “Shh. Over near the doorway.” He let go of his friend's face. “Move around. Make noise. Distract him.”

Salmoneus immediately began a stream of loud, nervous chatter. Hercules crept to the door and then pounced.

“I don't want to hurt you, but if—Peuris!”

Salmoneus poked his head out of the hut. “What's he doing here?”

“I just—” the boy began.

Honorius came up behind him. Hercules let him go and the lad ran to his father. His face full of dark anger, Honorius demanded to know what was going on.

“He didn't hurt me, father,” Peuris blurted.

Other people appeared, attracted by the noise. The boy looked at his feet.

“M-my fault . . . hanging about to find out what he'd say on his own. I thought . . . I didn't like him, but then he saved me . . . I was confused. I had to know. About us and the war.” He looked up at Hercules. “Sorry. You're all right.” He looked around at the faces staring at him before running off in embarrassment.

Honorius watched him go. “Thanks,” he said quietly, then left.

The crowd dispersed. Hercules stood, watching as Honorius caught his son up and hugged him, speaking softly.

“That's what makes these people worth helping, Salmoneus. If they can see something good in someone they think is a traitor—”

But he was talking to himself. Salmoneus had already gone inside.

Hercules entered the hut to find his companion snoring on the mat.

“Guess it's the floor for me,” he murmured, fingering the wounds on his leg and back and sighing. “Pleasant dreams, Salmoneus.”

Hercules groaned as he lay down on the cold, hard ground. Staring at the moonlit sky through the roof, he thought about the next day. That was when the trouble would really start.

The sunrise spread a buttery glow over Mercantilius. The light slid from the city into the forest, bathing countless leaves in golden light. The forest sloped up for many miles to a high, distant ridge. Beyond that, it fell back down again, the trees at the bottom still in shadow. Beyond the trees stood a tall, white wall, the sunlight painting it yellow.

Hewn from thick slabs of granite, the enormous wall stood ninety feet high and three hundred feet wide. Two men were climbing steps carved into the wall.

Salmoneus, the smaller of the two, climbed quick as a monkey. He was whistling happily, proud in garish finery: a silken robe of the purest silver, tied with a belt of embroidered gold on sky-blue satin. On his head lay a crown of sweet bay and laurel leaves. His fingers were heavy with rings; about his neck hung several sparkling pendants. His overall appearance was gaudy and tasteless. He loved it.

Behind him, Hercules glanced up and muttered, “You look like a fairground decorated for a three-day carnival.”

“Thank you!” Salmoneus beamed. “And I thought you didn't like my outfit. Of course,” he added sympathetically, “it certainly beats yours.”

It certainly did. Salmoneus had risen before dawn to gather the materials for what he called his masterpiece. He had taken scraps and ribbons of cast-off fabric—screaming orange, sniffly green, blinding pink, muddy grey, sunburst yellow, red-purple swirls—and woven them into a makeshift sack. Cutting holes for head, arms and legs, Salmoneus had pronounced the suit perfect.

Then he had helped Hercules inside, slapped a pair of oversized sandals on his feet, painted his hands and face as white as marble, glued a tiny red ball to his nose and finally tied the trimmings from a horse's tail into the man's hair as a wig. Well, it was the only plan they had.

Before they had left, Honorius had dropped by to offer some advice. No one knew much about the Pastoralian city, he'd said. It was protected by enormous walls that hid it from outsiders.

In the past, Pastoralis' few visitors had found the city-state a gentle, quiet land, as befitted a town of shepherds and herdsmen. Since hostilities had begun, though, rumours had spread of great military activity. All of the citizens were armed and training for battle. Scientists were working on steam-powered catapults. Every morning, all citizens were required to shout out threats and curses directed at Mercantilius, stoking their anger for the coming battle.

What's more, rumours continued, General Slaughterius was a monster. He had personally commanded all of these changes and imprisoned anyone who opposed him. He actually enjoyed killing, it was said, and had executed many prisoners personally.

Now, limping up a sheer wall in a clown's suit, Hercules concentrated on dreaming up two plans: one to stop the war, the other to punish Salmoneus. Just as he began to enjoy a vision of Salmoneus being coated in fish sauce and dipped into a vat of hungry ducks, the pedlar nudged him.

“Don't look now, Herc,” he whispered, “but it's showtime.”

Hercules peered up. Although they were only a third of the way up the wall, they had reached the top of the steps. From this point a walkway led to the wall's end. The city's designers had positioned the great stone walls so that there was a gap at each end. Anyone wanting to enter or leave had to do so through these corners. Hercules examined the guard post in the corner ahead of them. In a round, railed-off platform, four armed soldiers stood swinging pointed clubs. The burliest of them, clearly the commander, wore a blue sash from shoulder to hip.

Led by Salmoneus, Hercules moved along the walkway, his long sandals flapping on the stony ledge. “This,” he grumbled, “is the most stupid plan I've ever known.”

“Nonsense. It's brilliant,” Salmoneus hissed. “I don't care how touchy these guys are, no one ever suspects a clown.”

With a straight back and puffed-out chest, Salmoneus stepped into the guard station like the star of a sold-out recital presenting himself to his eager fans.

The guards raised their weapons, but waited for Salmoneus to declare himself friend or foe.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, “I have come to bring you entertainment. On the orders of General Slaughterius himself, I have come from the far corners of the civilized world, from Phrygia and Sumeria and Samarkand, to present to you the one, the only, the incomparable . . . Goofius!”

Hercules stepped forward and Salmoneus gave him an encouraging push. Unbalanced by his enormous shoes, the big man stumbled and landed face first on the platform's hardwood floor. He turned around and glared at Salmoneus.

Unbelievably, the guards laughed.

Hercules stared at them, amazed. He looked back at Salmoneus, who was nodding vigorously. The guards waited for more.

The burly commander crossed his arms. “Well?” he asked in a gruff, heavy tone. “Was that it?”

His troops' smiles faded.

“That,” Hercules improvised as he stood, “was, er, just a sample of the entertainment that awaits the great Slaughterius. But the rest of the show is reserved for him.”

“Right!” Salmoneus declared, bounding forward. “We know his heart is heavy and his mind weary from planning battles. We have come to cheer him so he can plan more easily, thereby ensuring victory for Pastoralis.”

“Right,” Hercules added. “Take us to him.”

The guards went into a huddle, then one of their numbers set off for the city. The commander explained. “He's going to the general's quarters. No one told us you were coming, but the boss might have secrets we don't know about.”

“Yeah,” said the youngest-looking guard. “Sometimes he just disappears for days.” A harsh glance from his commander silenced him.

The commander switched his gaze to the strange visitors. For a long moment, he only stared. Salmoneus pulled at his robe, which suddenly felt too tight. He grinned meekly at the brute; the man didn't grin back.

To Salmoneus' relief, the sprinter came back with four other guards behind him. The messenger nodded at his commander. “All right,” he grunted, “you're in. Positions, men.”

The guards surrounded their guests. Leading the entire group, the commander marched between the two towering stone walls. The four new guards remained to watch the gateway.

Hercules muttered to Salmoneus. “Brace yourself. Remember, these people are supposed to be military fanatics.”

Lined with stones, the walls formed a lengthy corridor and a chill wind was blowing down it. At last they approached a tall sliver of light: the morning sun shining through a gap between the walls up ahead.

Here it comes, Hercules told himself. The city of killers and warriors. Get ready for anything. He took a deep breath and tightened his fists.

They emerged into the light and caught their first view of Pastoralis. Hercules blinked; Salmoneus gaped. Then they looked at each other in disbelief.

Before them stretched an immaculate lawn with a chequered pattern mown into it. The morning sunshine made the dewy grass sparkle like a field of diamonds. A sweet honeysuckle perfume drifted in the air. Bluebirds swooped over the grass and settled on one of the city walls. A butterfly danced through the air, coming to rest on Hercules' wrist.

Hercules and Salmoneus stopped. They felt dirty, heavy and crude, like oxen in a temple.

In the distance stood a curving band of trees so perfectly pruned and shaped that they looked like giant lollipops. Behind them rose a semicircle of tall, thin buildings in pink, lavender and powder blue. They swept upwards and pointed towards the cloudless, crystal-blue sky. Were these impossibly elegant buildings offices, homes, museums or something else? Hercules had no idea.

He scanned the view. “Where is everyone?” he asked the guards.

The commander grunted. “Ambitius warned everyone we were bringing in outsiders. They're probably waiting for the all-clear.” He pressed a finger to the tip of his club. To Hercules' surprise, it popped apart to reveal a long, thin horn inside. He removed the instrument and blew a long blast.

A handful of beautiful women stepped from the nearest buildings. They whirled and cavorted over the patterned lawn. The dancers were as slim as the towers and wore flimsy clothes of nothing very much. Their hair cascaded down their backs in shining streams; their skin was pink and healthy; their teeth were a brilliant white.

“Salmoneus,” Hercules said, “close your mouth. You're drooling.”

His companion slapped his own cheek. “Well, I'm not dreaming and I'm not dead. Looks like Honorius lied to us about how rough this place is.

“I don't think so,” Hercules mused. “He would have known we'd find out he'd lied as soon as we got here—”

“Well, whatever, let's go over to the Pastor side. They seem nice and—” a dancer skipped by and smiled at Salmoneus—“friendly.”

“Honorius doesn't seem like the lying type. He must've been passing on false rumours.”

“Who cares?” Salmoneus said. “I'm going to set up right here. Sell a few beads and trinkets to these lovely ladies.” He pulled one of his medallions from his neck and tossed it to a dancer. She caught it as she spun round.

“Free sample. Get them talking about the merchandise.”

“Don't build dream castles,” Hercules warned. “You—uh-oh!”

“‘Uh-oh'? What do you mean by ‘uh' . . . oh.”

From the largest building, a man and a woman strode towards them. As they passed, the dancers curtsied deeply. The guards dropped to their knees and tilted their heads.

Hercules and Salmoneus found themselves the only ones standing. Salmoneus felt as exposed as a black cat in a field of snow. “Do we kneel?” he asked Hercules.

“Absolutely not,” the big man answered. “We're not their subjects. Just be careful.”

The man was tall and very thin, his skin as pale as paper. He appeared to be in his fifties, or maybe even older. His wispy hair was thin and sandy-coloured; his eyes were a watery grey and turned down at the corners, making him look sad. Despite his gangly frame, his belly was going to fat. His silhouette was that of a toothpick with a pea stuck to its middle.

“Hello there,” the man said in a voice so high and quiet that Salmoneus thought for a moment that the woman had spoken. The man held out a limp hand. “I'm Slaughterius, leader of this humble little community. Do forgive me for using such a ferocious looking guard, but they're only here to scare away people who might hurt my gentle kingdom.”

So much for Honorius' bloodthirsty monster, Hercules mused.

“Greetings, Your Majesty!” Salmoneus proclaimed quickly. “I am Salmoneus, agent for the talented and creator of entertainments, famed throughout a dozen nations. The great oaf at my side is Goofius the Fool, clown extraordinaire. His stupid antics are sure to delight and amuse you, as they have the crowned heads of Assyria, Egypt and Babylonia. I have seen him hurtle from the great Sphinx at Giza, tumble through the air for a hundred heartbeats, land with a splat loud enough to wake your dead grandmother and bounce to his feet as if he'd merely rolled out of bed . . . a stunt he will happily duplicate for you this very day.”

Hercules groaned inside.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Slaughterius said mildly. He gestured to the woman accompanying him. She was tall and blonde, with blazing blue eyes. And this lady is my dear, darling friend and . . .”

“Dryope,” Hercules blurted as he recognized her, and immediately regretted it. What if she saw beneath his disguise?

She peered at him. “Do I know you?” she asked. “You do look familiar . . .”

“But of course!” Salmoneus shouted, sliding between the two demi-gods. “Goofius is celebrated throughout the isles!” He grabbed Hercules' jaw and yanked his face forward. “Tell me, madam, is this not the face of a total idiot?”

I'll get you for this, Hercules thought.

“Hmm,” Dryope mused. “Maybe you're right.”

Salmoneus released Hercules' jaw. The big man looked daggers at his companion.

Dryope turned to her escort. “My dear,” she purred as she slipped her arm into his, “can you offer our new friends lodgings? They seem to have travelled far and no doubt they need rest.”

Slaughterius smiled at her. “A fine idea, my dear,” he said, giving her a kiss on the nose.

Hercules tried not to scowl. Dryope, you're at it again, he thought.

The two monarchs turned and ambled back towards one of the slim, curving towers. “O, Captain Vicius,” Slaughterius sang out.

The burly commander galloped up to his leader. “Sire?”

“Give our guests a place to stay and some food. They will perform tomorrow at noon.”

“Noon?” Salmoneus asked. “Don't you have something important to do tomorrow at dawn?”

Hercules gulped. Oh, Salmoneus!

“Why, yes,” Slaughterius replied without turning around. “We're going to butcher quite a number of, well, beasts.”

Beasts? Hercules thought. That's what they think of the Mercantilians? Ferocius was right: they are planning a dawn attack.

“We've been having such trouble selling our cows and sheep—someone has been spreading disgraceful rumours that they're not healthy to eat—that we're going to butcher them ourselves, cook them and eat them in public to show that they're safe,” Slaughterius continued. “We've invited the leaders of all the local city-states—except those dreadful Mercantilians, of course. Rumours, rumours—they're just awful for business, aren't they? We're going to get rid of them once and for all. Good day, everyone.”

With that, he and Dryope swept away.

Hercules watched them go, but his mind was elsewhere. When the Mercantilians attacked tomorrow, they were going to massacre these people—and all of the leaders from the other towns. Their citizens were going to want revenge. They'd attack the Mercantilians. There'd be a counter-attack. War.