Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 03 (18 page)

The arm guards blocked every attack that reached them.

"You're not human!" Dragar wailed.

Hercules waggled one hand. "Maybe, maybe not." He reached out and yanked the staff from the man's hands. "But you are, my friend, and now your power's mine."

Dragar's eyes opened wide in shock. "You wouldn't dare." The eyes narrowed. "You can't." The eyes widened again. "You don't know how." The eyes narrowed. ' 'You're not the type."

"You're making yourself dizzy," Hercules said.

Dragar passed a hand over his eyes. "I know."

Hercules examined the staff and ram, shook his head, and said, "Let's go. There are some people back in Phyphe who want to talk to you."

Dragar pressed his hands against his chest. "Are you going to hit me?"

"Are you going to come quietly?"

"By the gods, of course not!"

"Then I'm going to have to hit you."

That smile returned, sly and mocking. "Not if I hit you first."

Hercules had to admit, it was kind of admirable that the man didn't know when to quit. It was stupid, too, but Dragar was too dumb to realize it.

"You want to hit me, give it a try."

"Okay." Dragar stood as straight as he could, but he kept his hands at his chest.

Hercules had a bad feeling. Could Dragar do his magic without the ram? He checked the Eye; it was closed.

He checked Dragar, who hadn't moved.

He had a sudden, and thoroughly unpleasant, feeling that he ought to check behind him.

He did.

Aulma belted him with a club, and he went down like a felled tree.

There were no voices, no whispered concerns for his health, no pleas for him to recover in time to save whatever it was he was supposed to save.

There was, however, a splitting headache.

He groaned, opened his eyes, and stared into the puzzled gaze of a dark brown rabbit, whose twitching nose and exposed sharp teeth suggested an internal debate between the vegetarian it was born to be and the carnivore whose diet wasn't quite as
boring and which he maybe ought to give a try.

"Beat it," Hercules muttered.

The rabbit did.

His eyes closed again, and he waited impatiently for the throbbing to subside, and the inner voice to shut up—the one that told him what an idiot he was for thinking a man like Dragar wouldn't have a minion or two lurking about, just in case. Even if the minion, as in Aulma's case, had a glassy stare that suggested a spell had been cast to keep her under control.

Gingerly cradling the back of his head with a palm, he rolled onto his back and stared at the sky.

The clouds had thickened; the light had dimmed.

As he sat up, he braced himself for pain and was pleased that when it came, it wasn't as bad as he had feared. Aulma had hit him a good one, but it had been a glancing blow, most of the force of which had been taken by his shoulder. Which was why, he figured, his shoulder hurt so much.

At least there was no blood.

After some testing and sharp intakes of breath, he made it to his feet, checking his balance along the way. Once he was sure he wouldn't fall, he headed unsteadily for the road, struggling against the urge to run, a sure way to end up on his back again.

At the edge of the woods his head cleared, his limbs had decided to hang around and work for a while, and he figured that maybe this had worked out for the best. Although he doubted Dragar thought him dead, it was entirely possible that the sorcerer believed Hercules was at least out of commission long enough for him to do whatever had to be done to begin his campaign.

It was about the only advantage he had.

It was also one he hadn't the slightest idea how to use.

The plan he had hinted to Salmoneus about dealt with taking care of Dragar before the man had a chance to do anything.

The new plan, which didn't make any more sense than the old one, dealt with taking care of Dragar before he had a chance to do anything. Admittedly the two sounded identical, but he was positive there was a significant, subtle difference, and he was equally positive that he'd recognize it as soon as he saw it.

Long strides took him quickly across the field to the road. It was deserted now, and as he entered Phyphe, so were the streets he passed. Shutters were closed, doors were barred, and he heard nothing but his own breathing, and the thud of his boots on the hard-packed dirt.

He was halfway to the arena before he remembered Agatra's threat: if he didn't do something about Dragar, she would.

But he didn't think she had any idea what the man was really capable of.

Swell, he thought; she'll try to kill him, she'll get her feathers burned off, and with my luck, Hades will stick her with me in the Underworld, and I'll never hear the end of it.

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.