Hercules: The Legendary Journeys Two Book Collection (Juvenile) (8 page)

‘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.

The Pastoralian army surrounded him. The semicircle was complete, curving from the ridge top to about a quarter of the way down the hill, and every soldier in it was watching him.

The sun's rays touched his face. The Pastoralian army realized who he was.

“Look at him, my warriors!” the general cried. “Look how he has his arms out to strangle me. Look at how he has beaten your brothers. Look at the pile of your fellows, beaten senseless—or dead! This is the man, the ‘Hercules'—” he spat the name—“who came to our city to help us fight the Mercantilians, then took advantage of our hospitality, our food, our women! What shall we do to him?”

The thousand men rumbled, “Kill him!”

Hercules opened his mouth to speak, but the soldier on his shoulders clutched his hair and yanked his head backwards. Hercules grabbed the man's hands and tried to peel them off.

The impostor cupped a hand against his ear. “What was that?” he asked playfully.

“
Kill him!”

He shook his head. “Sorry, still can't hear you!”

“KILL HIM!”

‘Slaughterius' stretched out his arms as if to encompass the entire army. “Then do it, my brothers,” he demanded. “Do it!”

A thousand howling soldiers broke ranks and shot towards Hercules. Their faces twisted in fury as they raised arrows, clubs and spears. The pounding of their boots on the hillside rumbled like thunder.

I am in trouble, Hercules thought.

He spun like a top, hurling off the soldier around his shoulders. I can't fight all these men at once and they're likely to trample each other the way they're going. I've got to get out of sight and let them calm down.

He ran towards the top of the ridge, then bolted over the edge and out of the soldiers' sight. He ducked behind the biggest tree he could find.

The tree was as tall as the ridge itself, but its most startling aspect was its width. It was wider than the span of Hercules' outstretched arms. So broad was its trunk that it appeared, on first glance, as flat as a wall. Grabbing a moment's safety, Hercules looked around in search of more permanent lodgings.

Instead he saw an army.

Mercantilians! They stood only a few paces down the ridge, arranged in a giant square with more than thirty men on each side.

One man stood at the front and centre of the square. He was tall and muscular. He wore a gleaming silver breastplate and a high helmet. Black plumes rose from its crown.

It was Ferocius.

The general turned to his army. “Men!” he declaimed. “Look at the man up there, the one in front of that big tree. That is the man we saw two nights ago. That is that man we saw a week ago. That is the man who lied about being Hercules. That is the man who demanded our hospitality, our food, our women. That is the man who promised to return with the head of General Slaughterius.”

He paused to let them hear the oncoming yells of the Pastoralian troops. “And now he's leading their army!”

Hercules heard a rumble rise from the Mercantilians, a growl of bubbling fury.

Ferocius thrust out an arm and pointed at Hercules. “Kill the traitor!”

A thousand Mercantilians swept past their commander, rocketing up the hill with spears and swords in their fists. From the other side, the Pastoralian shouts grew louder.

Hercules turned. He looked around the tree and over the ridge. He saw the Pastoralian army hurtling towards him, only a few seconds away from burying him under their massed bodies.

How do I get into these things? he wondered.

And what's more, he thought, as two armies of screaming men thundered towards him from both sides, how do I get out?

I‘ve got no tools, no weapons, no—Hold on! Hercules turned and looked at the enormous tree. Taking a deep breath, he bent down and grabbed the thick, gnarled roots. He yanked. Leaning backwards, bending his knees, arching his back, he began a slow, hard pull.

There was a terrible groaning noise as the tree came free. Cascades of soil and pebbles fell from its roots.

A squirrel scampered down the trunk and on to Hercules' head. It looked around, its claws digging into his scalp. Hercules grimaced and tried to ignore the creature. The squirrel ran down his arm, leapt off the back of his hand and fled into the forest.

Hercules stumbled backwards under the tree's weight. Leaves fluttered to the ground and a thin branch broke off and fell, just missing him. Birds abandoned their nests in a flurry of wings.

As he put one foot behind the other in order to regain his footing, Hercules could hear the soldiers on both sides coming to a panicky halt, as they tried to avoid the area where the tree might fall. Hercules stepped up to the top of the rise carrying the massive oak. Straddling the ridge, with one foot on the Mercantilian side and one foot on the Pastoralian side, he steadied himself and breathed deeply, right down into his stomach.

Here goes, he thought.

He whirled, wielding the tree like a gigantic club, sweeping Mercantilians and Pastoralians aside like so many sheaves of corn. As he paused to regain a firm grip on the enormous tree, Hercules could hear a mass of soldiers charging him from the rear. He swung again and they went sprawling.

His arms began to ache under the incredible weight of the tree, but he knew he had to keep swinging or be overrun.

Two more squads of troops attacked him, one from each side. He slammed the men on the left away, but the ones on the right piled into him and nearly knocked him down. He had to swing the trunk of the tree on to their heads to knock them back.

A hundred soldiers leapt at Hercules from all sides at once. He swung and swung, but this time a few spear points got through and jabbed him before he could knock them all away.

They're getting smarter, he thought, as he slammed the tree this way and that. And there are so many of them. I knock a dozen away and there are still hundreds more waiting to attack me.

He swung in all directions, scanning around him for ideas. He caught sight of something odd about a third of the way down the Pastoralian side of the ridge: a straight row of a dozen trees, growing so close to each other that their trunks touched.

That was odd. Trees in this forest grew wherever they wanted, not in a straight line. More importantly, that row of trees had not been there earlier!

He whirled the tree around again to give himself more time to examine the odd formation. There wasn't just one line of trees, he now realized: there were four, forming a square. How strange!

As he looked around, another thought occurred to him: where were the generals, Ferocius and the fake Slaughterius? He couldn't see either of them. They should have been leading their troops.

It came to him in a flash and he made a decision. He began spinning faster and faster. The soldiers all around him fell back in surprise.

Still he kept spinning. And then he let go.

The mighty oak tree flew from his arms, soared over the nearest trees and arced downward again.

The soldiers on both sides paused to watch it go. They couldn't help themselves, but for a moment they forgot all about Hercules.

The tree came crashing back down to earth. Like a battering ram, it slammed through the front wall of the tightly packed square of trees, knocking it to the ground, shaking the entire forest. It was as if a giant's fist had hammered the ground.

The soldiers gasped, almost as one. Within the square of trees, Ferocius and the phoney Slaughterius sat frozen in shock amidst clouds of dust. Ferocius was sitting on the Pastoralian's comfortable saddle, while his arch-enemy sat on the back of his servant. Between them was the servant's tray of delicate candied fruits, a pair of wine bottles and several scrolls of parchment.

Suddenly there was a movement in the Mercantilian ranks. Hercules watched as soldiers stepped aside to allow an officer in a plumed helmet to march up towards him, attended by a group of young guards.

“Honorius.” Hercules greeted him as the man and his entourage approached. Honorius nodded, then marched straight past and down towards the open-sided square holding the generals. His son, Peuris, marched at the back of the unit but did not greet Hercules.

Ferocius rose and held out a hand to stop him. Honorius ignored it and reached for the parchments lying on the ground between the two men. He blew off some dust and read intently for a few moments. He looked around, scanning the Pastoralian troops. Vicius stepped forward, accompanied by a dozen warriors. Honorius handed him the papers in silence.

The soldiers waited in a silence so complete that Hercules could hear the parchments rustle as Honorius and Vicius passed them back and forth. In the end, Hercules became so curious that he had to stroll down and join them.

“Hercules!” Ferocius cried. The general leapt up, knocking the saddle sideways, and sprinted for him. He grabbed Hercules by the shirt front and pulled him forward. His eyes were full of fear. “You'll understand,” Ferocius started babbling. “You have to. I can explain it all. It was him.” He wheeled and pointed at ‘Slaughterius.' “You have to realize, ever since I was a kid I wanted action—battles, masses of troops to deploy, like the great generals of history. In Mercantilius we didn't have an army. All we had was a police force, so I had to settle for being chief of police. I felt so powerless.” He paused, thinking. “No. Useless,” he corrected.

Hercules said nothing.

Ferocius pointed at the impostor again. “Then he came! He didn't look like this, though. And he forced me to obey him. He said he'd give me a war. My people would need an army and I'd be in charge of it. I could run Mercantilius and I could lead battles like a proper general.”

Still there was silence.

Desperately, Ferocius continued. “He said I had to do it. He forced me!” He swung one arm around wildly to take in the hundreds of tired and wounded soldiers. “And it came true. Look.” He gulped a breath. “And there'd be more, he said. After this fight was over, he said, there'd be counter-attacks to ward off and new battles that I could plan to pay the enemy back in turn.” His tone changed from babbling to dreamy. “And he'd be gone. Once this battle was over, he promised, he'd go back home and I could conquer the whole island if I wanted!”

The soldiers on both sides were beginning to mutter to each other.

Ferocius gazed pleadingly at Hercules. “You have to believe me,” he said, “he forced me into the whole thing.”

“No, he didn't,” Honorius said suddenly as Vicius handed him a paper. “Their agreements are right here. Ferocius was more than eager to sign them all.”

Hercules heard a dark murmur, like the rumble of thunder before a downpour. The soldiers were now grumbling, their faces angry at the discovery that their leaders had betrayed them.

The men began to step forwards, slowly advancing on the generals.

Hercules was troubled. He didn't really want to have to save their skins.

Generals? he wondered to himself. He stared at the phoney Slaughterius, who glared back in silent fury. He's not a general, he's an impostor. Ferocius said he didn't always look like this. So who is he really?

As soon as he asked himself the question, he had the answer. Ares, of course. He loves this stuff. He set up this entire war.

Hercules frowned, watching the soldiers draw nearer. Wait a minute, though, he thought. Ares can't change his appearance.

Ah, but Hera can. And she would help him if she knew I would get dragged in. Maybe she bestowed the power on Ares for a short while.

The soldiers started to crowd round, muttering angrily. Any moment now that anger would spill over.

Go ahead, Ares, Hercules thought. Try something. You're good at making war—but if you make this lot any more warlike, they'll trample you into the battlefield. Your only hope is to make them more peaceful—and you can't do that! You've never learned how to stop wars, only to start them.

‘Slaughterius' stood up at last. He looked silently at the advancing troops. Then he closed his eyes, opened his mouth and began to howl.

It was a low wail, deeper than a wolf's baying and louder than a gale-force wind.

Hercules froze. The hairs on his arm stood up and a sudden chill raised goose-pimples all over his body. He found himself glancing over his shoulder, alert for trouble, suddenly nervous.

All around him, he could see, the soldiers were feeling it too. Suddenly Vicius broke. He bolted from the three-sided enclosure and shot off into the crowd, yelling in panic.

Honorius followed, as did his guard, as did Vicius' guards, as did Ferocius, as did tens, then hundreds of soldiers. They scattered in every direction, stumbling and falling but getting up again and racing as fast as their bodies would allow. They climbed over each other, pushed each other back, screamed at each other to get out of the way or expect a lance in the gut.

Hercules was doing it too. He chased through the woods, not knowing where he was going, not caring, his sandals thumping into the ground, his legs driving him onwards. He bumped into a tree, bounced off and kept running. He was fleeing nothing at all and he didn't know why.

What's the matter with me? he wondered. Ares can't do this. I'm not making sense. I'm just panicking.

He stopped running.

Panic!

He remembered a drunken demi-god, at a party, bragging about how his song frightened the gods' parents into letting Zeus take over Olympus. His singing made them afraid, made the old king run away so Zeus could take over.

That's it!

He turned and, in the face of a hundred men scrambling wildly towards him, began to run back up to the ridge and the enclosure.

A soldier slammed into him, fell to the ground, jumped up again and ran past him. Hercules could still hear the wailing and he was still afraid.

He forced himself to keep going, shoving past soldiers who shoved past him. He ground his teeth together to stop them from chattering.

It's not real, he told himself. There's nothing to be afraid of. This fear is just a lie.

His hands were sweating.

The soldiers were thinning out now. ‘Slaughterius' was alone in the enclosure, standing and swaying and singing.

Hercules took a deep breath and hoped that his voice wouldn't tremble. He forced himself to look the impostor in the eye. He kept walking, afraid that if he stood still, his knees would knock in fright.

“You can stop singing now,” he told the general, forcing his voice low. “You can't panic someone who knows what's going on. And for the first time since I landed on this island, I do know what's going on.”

Since all the soldiers had fled into the forest, the two men were alone. Now only a pace away from the still-singing general, Hercules stopped walking.

“Take off the Slaughterius disguise . . . Pan.”

The impostor stopped singing.