Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 02 (8 page)

Hercules nodded gingerly.

One of the bandits slid off his perch and dipped a ladle into a barrel, filled it, and brought it over. Hercules reached for it, but the bandit waggled a finger—
drink, but don't touch.
He complied, and the pounding in his head soon subsided to a dull throbbing.

The bandit nodded and backed away, dipping the ladle again before bringing it to Iolaus.

"We're dead, right?" Iolaus said weakly.

"No," the tall one answered with a hint of a smile.

"I feel like it."

"You'll feel better."

"I hope so, or I'd rather be dead."

During this exchange Hercules studied the cave further without trying to be obvious about it. The entrance was far to his right, a glare of sunlight smearing the edges. There were other tables, large jars, and bundles he assumed were filled with food scattered around the boulders. Ledges protruded from the walls, some holding lanterns, a few holding bandits. The bandits themselves, he realized with a start, were young. All of them. And despite his impressions over the past two days, they did not look particularly ill fed or ragged. Bruised and battered a bit, but not deprived. Against the wall directly opposite him he spotted a neat arrangement of weapons—swords, clubs, and staffs—which did not look anything like the miserable weapons the band had used against him.

This, he thought, is very strange.

A sound above him made him look up over his shoulder. A man sat on a ledge halfway to the ceiling. In his hand he held a bow; in the bow was a nocked arrow.

He waved.

Hercules waved back.

At that moment Iolaus struggled to sit up, moaned, and said, "Who
are
you guys?"

The man at the table said, "We are the TLA."

Iolaus and Hercules exchanged puzzled looks as the bandits stirred.

"The
what?"
Hercules asked.

"The TLA" was the answer. "The Themonian Liberation Army."

Iolaus snorted. "You're .. . rebels?"

A strong murmur of proud assent filled the cave. A few rebels slapped their thighs, a few others held up fists.

"Rebels." Iolaus sighed. "Just my luck."

Hercules pushed both hands back through his hair, pausing only when his fingers touched a lump on his skull. When he checked his hands, he saw no blood. For some reason, this didn't give him much comfort.

He pulled up his legs, and froze when he heard the distinct sound of a bolt being placed and locked in a crossbow. He smiled in hopes they'd realize he wasn't about to try anything against such odds, and sat straighter.

Although he attempted several times to engage the man at the table, or anyone else, in conversation, none seemed inclined to talk. Except to each other.

An hour passed.

Another.

When he couldn't take the silence any longer, or Iolaus' snoring after boredom had put him to sleep, he shifted as if to stand. Instantly every rebel turned his attention to him.

Thank you, he thought sourly.

"So," he said to the man at the table, "what are you rebelling against?

“The inhuman conditions and vast cruelties Councillor Titus Perical forces all good Themonians to endure" was the unhesitating response.

"Right, that's right," several rebels said.

"You tell 'em, Rotus!" a squeaky voice urged. "You're doing great! Keep it up!"

Rotus nodded. "Titus has been in power for too long."

"Yeah!" cheered the squeaky voice. "You got it, man, you got it!"

Rotus stood, arms folded across his chest. "He has caused many people many ... hurts, and . . . and he refuses to allow the people to ... do things!"

A roar of approval filled the cave.

"You're the best, Rotus, the best!" yelled the squeaky voice.

Hercules looked at Iolaus, who, having woken up, shrugged.

When the cheering died down, Hercules cleared his throat. "So what does that have to do with us?"

"Symbols," Rotus answered immediately.

"Good answer," Squeaky Voice said.

"Symbols of what?"

Rotus glared at him. ' 'Symbols of the high-handed way Titus runs the city without the permission and proper designation of the people he's supposed to serve!"

As the cheering swelled again, Hercules, with one eye on the rebels to be sure he wouldn't be skewered, scooted closer to Iolaus. "Are you all right?" he said, wincing at the dried blood.

"I've had worse headaches." Iolaus made a pained face to prove his point. "But these guys are nuts."

"I heard that!" yelled Squeaky Voice. "He insulted you, Rotus. He impugned your honor!"

"Who
is
that guy?" Iolaus inquired, frowning.

"I don't know," Hercules said. "A Rotus rooter, I guess. But I sure wish he'd shut up."

"I heard that, too!" Squeaky Voice squeaked. "I heard that!"

The cave quieted.

Rotus picked up the dagger and tapped its point on the table. "You're supposed to take part in the summer festival. If you do, nothing will change, and Titus will go on as always. So ..." He spread his arms and grinned. "You stay here until it's over."

"What?" Iolaus tried to jump to his feet, staggered halfway there, and fell back on his rump. "You can't do that!"

Rotus shrugged. "We already have. You're here, you're not going anywhere, and the festival begins in the morning."

"Well put, well done!" Squeaky Voice cried.

Iolaus rolled his eyes. "By the gods, will you please be quiet?"

Suddenly someone raced across the floor and skidded to a halt in front of him, hands on hips, fiercely scowling, and wearing a black patch over one eye. "
You
be quiet," the rebel squeaked. "You're the prisoner, big boy, not me."

Hercules looked away before he laughed.

Iolaus could only gape and stammer.

The rebel was a woman. Most definitely a woman. Blond hair a-tangle over her brow, large blue eyes— one of them, anyway—and a dirt-smudged pug nose lightly sprayed with freckles.

Somewhat flustered, Iolaus brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and offered an apologetic smile.

To Hercules' astonishment, she blushed and stomped away to the table, taking the chair Rotus had used, spinning it around, and sitting on it, her arms draped over the low back.

"You'll have to forgive Venitia," Rotus said flatly. "She tends to lose her temper a lot."

Hercules noticed that there were at least two other women in the group, a fact that had evidently not escaped Iolaus' eye either.

"No problem," Hercules said reasonably. "But I don't think holding us here is going to do you any good."

"Really? And why not?"

"We're only judges," he explained. "If we don't show up, they'll only pick someone else in our place."

"They wouldn't dare," Venitia declared, thumping the table with a fist.

"Why not?"

"Because," she answered sharply.

The other rebels grumbled loudly.

"Look," Hercules said, concentrating on Rotus, "we don't have anything to do with this Councillor Titus. Or with Themon, for that matter. My friend Iolaus, here, accepted an invitation, and we intend to honor it."

The grumbling grew louder.

Patience, he told himself; patience.

He tried again: "Since you obviously know who we are, you must also know our reputations." He frowned, and the grumbling subsided. "So why not let us go to Themon, do what we promised, and if we find that your complaints are just, maybe then we can lend you a hand."

"Hey, we're doing all right on our own," Venitia snapped.

The grumbling grew still louder.

"Well, of course you are. I didn't say you weren't."

The grumbling subsided.

Rotus shook his head. "That all sounds pretty good, but we have our orders, and we know what to do."

He almost seemed sincere when he added "Sorry."

Iolaus, who apparently couldn't take his gaze off Venitia, nudged Hercules with an elbow. "What's the big deal about a councillor? He's not a king, is he?"

"No," Rotus answered as he perched on the edge of the table. "He's a tyrant."

"You can say that again," Venitia muttered.

Now Hercules was truly puzzled.

Although lands were ruled by kings or other nobles, a number of cities were governed, as was Themon, by councils chosen from the ranks of the rich and educated. Which, these days, pretty much amounted to the same thing.

In times of war, however, when it was clear a strong hand was needed to raise and train an army, the council elected a tyrant to run things. He was a man with sweeping powers whose sole mandate was to protect the city, win the war, and save the people. When the war was over, the parades done, and the booty divided, the tyrant stepped down and the council returned to power.

Almost always.

Rotus nodded at the expression on Hercules' face. "That's right. Themon had a war with pirates a long time ago. Titus was elected tyrant, defeated the pirates ,. . and stayed in power."

"How long?" Hercules asked.

Rotus closed one eye and stared at the ceiling, sniffed, held up one hand, stared at his fingers, closed the other eye, bowed his head, opened his eyes, and said, "Twenty years, give or take."

"What?" Iolaus scratched his cheek. "Twenty years? Why hasn't he been replaced?"

The grumbling modulated to a discontented mumbling.

Rotus mumbled something himself, and Hercules asked him, politely, to speak up.

"Because things have been pretty good, that's why," the rebel snarled grudgingly. "Nobody wants to take a chance on changing the government, because they don't want to rock the boat."

"Not
that
good," Venitia corrected.

"Well, yes, not that good," Rotus agreed.

"Right!" someone called. "Not all that good. Pretty awful sometimes, actually."

The others agreed. Loudly. With lots of fist waving and lots of foot stomping. Within seconds, someone had begun to sing what was clearly a song meant to inspire revolutionary fervor. Seconds later all the rebels joined in and were singing. Loudly. With lots of fists waving and lots of feet stomping.

Hercules and Iolaus looked at each other.

"You're sure I'm not dead?" Iolaus asked.

Hercules shook his head, although he himself had decided he was probably still asleep, that this was yet another one of those portentous dreams whose meaning he was expected to decipher so that he could, upon awakening, figure out what to do next. The problem was, all this yelling and grumbling and top-of-the-lung singing was giving him a splitting headache on top of the one he already had.

When Iolaus nudged him sharply with an elbow, he sighed. He was awake. Very awake.

Iolaus leaned close. "Here, we have to get out of here."

"I know."

"We can't disappoint those ladies."

"I know."

"I mean, they're depending on me, Herc.
Us.
To give them the elusive dream they've always dreamed of since they were children—being the summer queen. Being the queen of Themon. Being—"

Hercules snapped a finger against the man's chin to shut him up. "That was in the invitation, wasn't it?"

Iolaus scowled, rubbed his chin, opened his mouth to protest Hercules' doubt of his command of the language, not to mention his sincerity, changed his mind, and nodded.

The singing continued.

An excruciating hour passed as song followed song, during which Hercules figured this
had
to be Hera's revenge.

Eventually Iolaus nudged him again. "I have a plan."

Of course, Hercules thought; you always have a plan.

"So tell me something I don't already know," he said.

"They have horses."

Hercules stared at him in disbelief. ' 'They what?'

"Horses. That's why they keep leaving. To take care of the horses." Iolaus inched closer. "So we get out of here, grab a couple of horses, and ride." He smiled.

Hercules smiled back. "How do we get out of here?"

Iolaus' smile broadened. "That's your job. I thought of the horses." When Hercules made to snap his chin again, he laughed. "No, really, I have a plan for that, too." He glanced around at the singing rebels.

"When I tell you, run for the exit."

"All right," Hercules said doubtfully. "When do we do this?"

"Now!" Iolaus shouted, leaped to his feet, and raced away.

Stunned, Hercules sat for a second, then groaned, leaped to his own feet, and followed Iolaus toward the exit.

Stunned, the rebels kept singing until they realized that their hostages had escaped, then changed the singing to a lot of shouting and screaming and grabbed their weapons before racing for the exit.

It was the bowman on the ledge who scored the first hit.

As Hercules and Iolaus exploded from the cave an arrow ricocheted off one of the Hephaestus-forged black guards Hercules wore on each arm from wrist to elbow. The hit startled him, nearly made him stumble, and reminded him that these bandits were not the bumblers he had once believed.