Hercules: The Legendary Journeys Two Book Collection (Juvenile) (7 page)

“Okay, I'm set,” Slaughterius said softly. “Now, push me upwards, fast!”

“Are you crazy?” Hercules asked. “I can't do that. I'll squash you against the ceiling. You'll be flatter than a slice of bread.”

“I can hear them!” Vicius' harsh voice called from the .shallow end of the tunnel. “We've got 'em!” Hercules could hear running. “Follow me!”

“Hercules,” Slaughterius hissed between gritted teeth, “there's no time to argue. I know what I'm doing. Lift, you idiot, lift!”

If he had had the time, Hercules would have shrugged. See you in the Underworld, he thought, and heaved the Pastoralian skyward.

The man's weight left Hercules' hands. He heard the slap of Slaughterius' palms hitting a rock surface and then a grunt and scramble.

Slaughterius' voice called down from the blackness. “Hercules, squat down and do the same again. Come on, Salmoneus. Step forward till your feet feel Hercules' hand underneath them.”

Hercules could hear fast-running boots approaching from the tunnel's mouth.

“Move it!” Slaughterius ordered.

Two more feet squashed Hercules' knuckles into the ground. Again he flung his hands up high and again the weight flew up from his fingers.

He heard Slaughterius' hand clamp on to Salmoneus' arm. There was some scuffling and grunting as the old man pulled Salmoneus up to wherever he was.

“Hercules, Cactus, stand back to back,” Slaughterius commanded. “There's a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel you're in. Jump straight up, about eight feet. Go more than ten and you'll split your skull on the ceiling of the tunnel above. Jump!”

The two big men bent and sprang.

As he rose, Hercules could feel the cool air brushing his sweaty arms. Hands grabbed his chest and jerked him forward. He rolled on to a pair of bodies and then on to a surface that was undulating but hard, cold and knobbly. A bony hand—Slaughterius', he was sure—covered his mouth to keep him quiet. By his side Cactus was similarly silenced.

“You six!” Vicius' raspy voice yelled. “Search the tunnel to the left. The rest of you, come with me to the right. Wherever that lowlife fraud goes, we're going to catch him. Move!”

Hercules heard the scuffling of boots and the occasional curse fade into the distance. Soon the sounds diminished and eventually even the echoes were gone. Hercules let out a long breath.

“Slaughterius?” He tossed the word into the dark and hoped he was facing the right way. “Can you get us out of here?”

“Certainly,” said the old man's voice, floating up from behind Hercules. “Follow me. It isn't far.”

The men got to their feet. Hercules could hear Slaughterius padding forward and walked towards the sound.

The stone floor was hard, smooth and sloped upwards a little.

“I'm sorry I had to be so rude with you.” Slaughterius went on. “With all of you. But those guards were coming and there just wasn't the time to ask permission and make explanations.” He sounded sincere.

Hercules said, “No problem. We know how it is. Are we safe now? Where are we going?”

He could hear Slaughterius chuckling. “Certainly we're safe. Oh, there's a chance that those men may find us, or other men may be patrolling nearby, but this tunnel isn't very well known. My ancestor built it as an escape route for if he ever had to flee the city.”

Hercules nodded, then realized that Slaughterius couldn't see him.

“Slow down,” came the old man's voice. Hercules could hear him patting the wall as he moved forward. Before he could ask what the man was doing, Slaughterius announced, “Ah, here we are. I thought so. Stop, please.”

Hercules halted. He heard Slaughterius stamp his foot three times on the tunnel floor. A section of the wall slid upward, stopping only when it was flush with the ceiling.

Golden light burst into the tunnel. Everyone raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. “Come on.” Slaughterius smiled. “It gets easier now.”

Hercules squinted and blinked. He was looking at a flight of stairs carved into solid rock, with torches lining the walls on both sides.

Salmoneus sneezed. “Sorry,” he apologized. “That breeze tickled my nose hairs— Hey, wait a second. A breeze?”

Hercules could feel it too: a cool breeze sliding from the top of the stairs. We must be getting close to the outside, he thought.

Slaughterius stamped his foot again. The door slid down the tunnel wall, closing it off, and they began climbing the stairs.

“In case you were wondering,” Slaughterius went on, “some of the tunnel doors work on a counterweight system. Many of these walls and floors are hollow, you see. When I stamped my foot, I tripped a trigger tied to a slab inside the walls. The slab is connected by rope and pulley to the door. Now, the slab's a little heavier than the door, so when the trigger dropped out from under the slab—”

“The slab dropped and pulled the door up,” Hercules finished. “And when you needed to close the door, you just stamped again.”

Hmm, he mused. That explains how the people we chased from the surface down to here got out of the pit and we couldn't. They knew how to raise the door and we didn't.

Slaughterius was taking two steps at a time now, with Hercules right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Salmoneus and Cactus were all right.

The giant was carrying Salmoneus. Hercules scowled—the smaller man was taking advantage of the giant's strength and innocence—but the pedlar only shrugged. “He offered to carry me,” he said.

“Cactus, please put him down,” Hercules chided gently. “Salmoneus, you can walk. Look at Slaughterius.”

The old man was jogging briskly up the stairs, wheezing but determined. “We'll be on the surface soon,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “This stairway brings us up behind one of the gates between the city walls, the one that faces Mercantilius.” He began leaping three stairs at a time.

Hercules sprinted up alongside him. You really do want out, don't you? he thought. The old man, he saw, was leaning towards the top, his body at a forward tilt, his legs pumping, neck muscles stretched and straining, sweat flying off his brow.

Slaughterius picked up his pace once more. Old man, Hercules thought, you could give Hermes a run for his money!

He glanced over his shoulder to find Salmoneus and Cactus not far behind. Although Salmoneus was lagging, Cactus was pulling the peddler's hand and trying to drag him along.

Slaughterius stopped. They had reached the top.

Hercules looked up. The ceiling was a square covered in dark wooden planks laid in a criss-cross pattern for maximum strength. There was no handle. As Cactus, Slaughterius and Salmoneus watched, Hercules laid a hand on the planks and slowly pushed upwards.

The ceiling angled out, creaking. Its edges were fringed in thin, fragile leaves that Hercules recognized as blades of grass.

A chequered square, Hercules realized. Of course.

The night sky was clear and full of bright stars. A cool breeze floated along, teasing Hercules' hair. He stepped out of the hole, with the others close behind. Cactus closed the square gently behind him.

Hercules dropped to his hands and knees, then lowered himself until he was belly-down on the grass.

“Everybody down,” he whispered. “We've got to move, but I don't want us to walk upright. There's nothing to hide behind and we've got to do everything we can to avoid being spotted.”

He looked around. There was a city wall not far to his left and another not far to his right. The dark gap between the walls stood dead ahead.

“You were right, Slaughterius,” he whispered. “We're pretty close to one of the ways out of here.” There were no guards in sight, but the Pastoralians were quick and clever; some might spring out at any moment.

Hercules began slithering forward like a snake and waved the others to follow. He was formulating a plan.

The Mercs are supposed to attack at dawn and the fake Slaughterius knows it. So he'll probably attack before dawn. But how long before?

Probably an hour or two, while the Mercs are still in bed. He can't attack much earlier than that, because his own troops need their sleep.

To no one in particular, he muttered, “I just wish I knew what time it was.”

“Telling time? That's not hard,” Slaughterius said. His voice sounded puny, like something rustling in the distance. “Just let me read the stars.” He looked up and his neck creaked. “Mmmm . . . yes . . . well,” Slaughterius mumbled. “Aha! We're about four hours from dawn.”

Hercules sighed and smiled. He let his face rest on the cool, dewy grass. Phew! I've got time.

Filled with hope and renewed energy, he began slithering forward again, faster than before. He ignored Salmoneus' whine for him to slow down and kept going.

He reached the gap and peered into it. He saw only darkness in the shadows cast by the tall wall. He heard no sounds except the soft shuffle and swish of the others slipping through the grass behind him.

Hercules grabbed the edge of the nearest wall and pulled himself to his feet. He took stock of his injuries from his feet on up, but there were too many to keep in his mind at one time.

The rustling behind him stopped as Cactus helped Slaughterius and Salmoneus to their feet.

“Thanks,” Hercules told the giant. “Let's go.”

They slipped through the gap. Lifting their feet only inches into the air and placing them on the rocky floor slowly and carefully, they managed to stay silent. As slowly as if they were walking through treacle, they sneaked forward through the darkness.

Hercules could see dark blue light ahead. The night sky seemed to be waiting for them. But the guards would be waiting too, he knew.

He turned his head and caught Cactus' eye. The man crept forwards. Hercules forced himself not to smile at the sight of the broad-shouldered, thick-chested, cannon-armed behemoth trying to tiptoe.

Hercules pulled the giant's head close to his own. “See that opening up ahead?” he whispered. Cactus nodded slowly. “There's a guard station with at least four armed soldiers there. Beyond the guard station is a thirty-foot drop. We'll have to hit them fast and hard—but we'll have to be careful or we could go falling. Are you with me?”

Cactus looked at the blue gap for a very long time. Hercules tried not to be impatient and let him study.

Cactus' gaze returned to Hercules. “I'm with you,” he answered, his voice low and sure.

“Let's go,” said Hercules.

They crept forward into the darkness between the walls, Hercules listening like a cat for any sounds of the guardsmen. He heard nothing, which bothered him.

Do they know we're corning? Are they waiting for us? He did not know the answer.

They reached the front edge of the walls, close to the guard station. Hercules backed up against one wall. Cactus followed his lead and pressed back against the other. He looked at Hercules, waiting for his signal.

Hercules reached up. The wall felt rough and he remembered that it was made of hundreds of small stones set in mortar. He scratched the wall with his fingernails until a few pebbles cascaded down his fingers and into his palm.

He threw them on to the floor. They rattled in the otherwise silent air.

Hercules glanced to the opening. Well, he thought, I just gave you guys a noise to show there's someone here. Come and investigate so Cactus and I can clobber you!

No one appeared.

They're on to me, he thought. I'll have to do this the hard way.

He gripped the edge of the wall and swung his legs around the corner, shrieking like a maniac, hoping to kick a guardsman's gut while scaring his colleagues. Cactus followed, leaping from the other wall, offering his own whoops and screams.

Back between the dark walls, Slaughterius and Salmoneus listened to the noises, trying to work out whether they were signs of defeat or victory.

There were no clues as to what was happening. Salmoneus and Slaughterius exchanged glances: Slaughterius curious, Salmoneus panicky. Hercules and Cactus had fallen silent now. There were no cracks of people hitting them or thumps of guard-like bodies landing on the ground.

“Come on, guys,” called Hercules from up ahead.

The pair hurried to where the walls ended. Cactus and Hercules were standing there in the guard station. There was no sign of any guards.

“Hey,” Salmoneus asked, “where did the beefy guys go?” He looked at Hercules and Cactus. “Present company excepted.”

Hercules pointed down over the rail to the forested lands below. “There they are,” he said in a strange voice.

Salmoneus looked. He reeled and nearly fainted.

One thousand armed Mercantilians, massed in a tight square formation, were marching towards Pastoralis. One thousand armed Pastoralians, arranged in a triangle at the base of their city walls, were marching into the forest towards Mercantilius.

Salmoneus turned to Hercules, confused. “What happened?”

“They lied,” Hercules said darkly. He squeezed the railing tight and had to stop himself from crushing it. “The Mercantilians said they'd attack at dawn, but they're attacking now.”

He looked up at the heavens. Ares, you monster. You set this up, he thought. All those people are going to get hurt and for what?

“Can you stop them?” Cactus asked Hercules. He looked worried and suddenly smaller.

Hercules frantically sifted through plans in his mind. “I don't know,” he said.

“I do,” called a familiar voice behind him.

The four men turned slowly. In the gap between the walls stood Captain Vicius and several other soldiers, all aiming arrows at Hercules and his colleagues.

“Hercules, look here,” Cactus said suddenly. The giant was pointing at the pathway cut into the wall to the right of the guard station. On it stood more guards, also aiming arrows at the men's hearts.

“I hate to say this,” Slaughterius said, “but look here.” He pointed lower than Cactus did. On the ladder cut into the wall, leading from the ground up to the pathway, stood more sharpshooters.

“Uh, Herc?” Salmoneus asked.

Hercules turned. Salmoneus was facing the wall on the other side of the guard platform. It had its own pathway and ladder, which had their own guards taking deadly aim at him.

There were more than forty guards in all—and those were only the ones he could see. How many more were in hiding, ready to attack?

“One twitch,” Vicius snarled, “and you and your friends are pin cushions.”

Hercules' brain raced. Without moving anything but his eyes, he traced the few feet between himself and Vicius. Can I jump him? Maybe.

He looked at the soldiers lined up at Vicius' side and behind him. They were young, sharp-eyed, probably quick and eager to react.

If I make a move, it'll trigger his men to fire.

Hercules could feel Salmoneus, Cactus and Slaughterius watching him from behind.

I might find a way to survive. But what about the others?

He risked a fast glance over the guard station's railing. The armies were on the march towards each other.

I've got to do something. Those men will kill each other.

Vicius sneered. “You think you're so smart. Once you lost us in the tunnels, there was only one place you could go: out. All I had to do was alert my lieutenants to cover the city's exits.”

Vicius stopped sneering and his face turned as dark as a storm cloud. Hercules had seen the expression before, on the face of his stepmother, Hera, and his half-brother, Ares. It was hatred, pure and simple.

“Coward,” the captain said, his voice saturated with contempt. “Running like a scared rabbit. And you call yourself Hercules!”

Not long after, Hercules and his friends had been marched across the wall's stone walkway, had crawled down its ladder and had been pushed into the forest. Then they were shoved and pushed through the still-dark trees, until they lost all sense of direction. Vicius' guards flitted from tree to tree in formation, moving around them like a school of sharks circling a boat.

The group was marching up the long rise that separated Pastoralis from Mercantilius. As he pressed on, Hercules' bare feet felt sharp-cornered dents in the soft soil. He heard the boots of the Pastoralian army ahead of him, marching in a tight, fast rhythm, punching the patterns of their soles into the dew-softened ground like a high-speed mint stamping a thousand coins.

From the sight of the armies that he had caught back at the guard station, Hercules was sure that even as the Pastor army was heading up the rise towards Mercantilius, so the Merc army was heading up the other towards Pastoralis. From the fast pace of the Pastoralian march, he estimated that he had less than half an hour before the armies met and started to destroy each other.

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 Hercules 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.