Fantastical Ramblings Read online

  Fantastical Ramblings

  A Collection of Short Fantasy Fiction

  Irene Radford

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  Book View Café Edition

  June 4, 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-251-8

  Copyright © 2013 Phyllis Irene Radford

  Table of Contents

  The Sword of Herakles

  The Final Choice

  Of Rats and Cats and Teenagers

  Lady’s Choice

  Image of the Beast

  Dragon Treasure

  Draconis ex Machina

  Friends in Strange Places

  The Curse of the Pendragon

  More to Truth than Proof

  Not My Knot

  The Fall

  Copyright & Credits

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About Book View Café

  The Sword of Herakles

  This was my first short story sale to the DAW Books Anthology: Olympus, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Bruce D. Arthurs. The invitation came at a time when I was developing the Merlin’s Descendants Series and I had just watched an episode of Xena Warrior Princess in which she and Hercules use the sword of Hephaestus to free Prometheus of his chains. Life works in wonderful synchronicity sometimes.

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  The woman breathed delicately into his ear. His senses swirled, then centered on the seductive scent of her. Earthy, clean, irresistible.

  “Come with me. Give me what I want,” the woman whispered, placing her hand upon his sword grip.

  Herakles clamped his own hand atop the woman’s, suddenly alarmed. He shifted his stance, angling his hips slightly away from any direction her knee could reach. A head shorter than he, she seemed firmly muscled and agile.

  “Who are you?” he breathed back in her ear, careful not to let his words carry further. The sea was calm tonight. Sound carried far across the bay; a beacon to any enemy that lurked there.

  “I am the companion you hired for tonight,” she replied petulantly. Her fingers flexed beneath his, still grasping the sword grip.

  He knew all the women attached to this small army—knew them intimately. She was not one of them. Any experienced campfollower would wait for a man to finish his patrol before approaching. Punishment for a man deserting his post would extend to the woman.

  The small, sheltered fire he kept to ignite signal torches cast disguising shadows across her face. Her simple gown shimmered in the moonlight. The finest silk, almost transparent. She was much more than a common campfollower.

  Her breath fanned the fires of his desire. The stirring in his groin demanded attention. He looked deeply into her eyes, seeking answers.

  Such beautiful eyes, as blue as a peacock’s feathers.

  He knew her now. Her eyes always gave her away.

  His desire vanished as quickly as it had come.

  “Give me...”

  “You’re cheating, Hera.” Herakles shifted his grip to pinion her arms at her sides. She squirmed and kicked for release. He twisted quickly, turning her to lock one arm across her throat while keeping her immobile with the other. “I’ll tell Lilith that you are impersonating one of her succubi.” He allowed himself a low chuckle.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Hera jerked upward and forward unable to break his grip on her. Suddenly she sagged against him.

  “Wouldn’t I?” He had evaded his step-mother and her schemes for centuries and didn’t believe for a second that she had accepted defeat so easily.

  The sea pounded the parapet at his feet. He listened with part of his attention, still aware of his duties.

  After decades of wandering the Earth as a mercenary—always one step ahead of Hera—he’d landed far away from his native land. He found the high-spirited natives in this remote island fascinating. Their race produced minor heroes, celebrated in song and lore, on a regular basis. Given time, they might spawn the next great civilization to rival Greece.

  Herakles hoped to help them along. No one else was left to do it. The legacy of Prometheus had to continue, even if Herakles’ efforts were insignificant compared to the renegade Titan.

  “How would it look in Olympus, Hera, if the others learned the patroness of fidelity and marriage had tried to seduce her own stepson?” She’d done worse trying to retrieve the artifact he guarded.

  “The others won’t listen to you. You forsook Olympus. Why are you so concerned with these barbarians? You should let their enemies slaughter them, one and all.”

  “I didn’t forsake Olympus. I chose to continue as the protector of humans. These people deserve my help.” Help he wasn’t giving if he gave Hera all of his attention. The bay was vulnerable on this moonlit night.

  “We could end this game once and for all. Give me the sword!”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll give it to one who will murder Zeus’s latest playmate—a blonde nymph he found flitting about the northlands.” Hera’s hands clenched into tight fists. “A blade forged by Hephaestus is the only weapon that will break through the defenses my husband has set around her.”

  “You know me better than that, Hera. No ordinary man should have the sword; its wielder is invincible. What mortal can appreciate its dangers?” Herakles asked. He shuddered at the thought of one of the bloodthirsty sea raiders turned loose with the sword. Any spark of civilization would be swallowed up in the larger conflagration of chaos and destruction. He looked over his shoulder toward the quiet bay, making certain none of their ships slipped into the bay unnoticed.

  “The last time you stole the sword from me, you gave it to Attila the Hun,” Herakles reminded Hera. “The death and destruction he caused—was it any wonder I stole the sword back and left Olympus?”

  “I gave Attila the sword so he could ruin that bothersome Christian movement that’s getting so popular. He almost succeeded.”

  “The sword was given to me so I could free Prometheus. No other weapon would break his chains. He had to be freed so humans could use his gifts to grow. You had no right to use it for your petty schemes.”

  “If it weren’t for Prometheus, we Gods would have destroyed humans centuries ago. They are a pestilence. They breed and multiply like rats—especially the ones Zeus seduces.”

  “Like my mother.” Bitter silence stretched between them. He didn’t need to mention his wife and children. Hera had induced madness in him and he’d murdered those he loved best. If he vented the rage that boiled in his blood every time he remembered Hera’s treachery, he’d sink into madness. Hera might steal the sword back while he wreaked his own swath of destruction.

  He thrust her away and turned his back on her before he let his hate get the better of his good sense.

  Hera pouted prettily. “Give me the sword, Herakles. Give it up and all your dreams and desires will come true.” Her gaze rested on the pommel of the crude weapon on his hip. “You can go back to Olympus. Or I can make you mortal again. You could walk the Earth as an ordinary man, marry and beget children.”

  “Why? So you can force me to murder those I love? Or trick my family into killing my mortal body again?”

  “I’ll leave you alone forever if you give me the sword now.” Hera grabbed the grip again in a movement so swift only a god could execute or anticipate it.

  Herakles clamped his hand on her wrist, squeezing hard on the vulnerable bones. He smiled at her error in judgment. “You don’t think I’d wear such an important weapon on an everyday patrol, do you?”

  “What have you done with the real sword?” Hera stamped her foot and tried to wrench away from him.

  After a moment, he deliberately thrust her away from him. He wiped his hands upon his clothing as if she had soile
d him with her touch.

  “You are a disgrace to Zeus, who sired you, and the gods who nurtured you.” Hera paced the rampart where he stood watch. The rock work trembled under her step. “How can you waste your strength and talents on these barbarians?” She waved her hands wildly and tore at her hair.

  Herakles ignored her ranting and turned his attention back out to sea. Would the wily raiders take advantage of the illumination and good weather? They were unpredictable. He couldn’t out-think them. But he’d pledged his help to the natives here. Many of the soldiers called him “friend.” He returned their affection.

  “Don’t you ever long for the warmth and sun of Greece?” Hera’s tone now relied on nostalgia rather than sex. “Remember the scent of olive trees and juniper on the hot wind? The rolling hills? The dry air that lets you see forever under a deep blue sky? The beautiful sea, warm enough to bathe in?” She leaned on the parapet looking southeast across the water, toward Greece, toward home.

  “I like it here. I like these people.” They had fire in their thoughts and dreams. A fire the Greeks had let die out. A worthy hero for the sword might grow out of this environment.

  “It’s so damp here. Only barbarians would like this climate!”

  “Barbarians who love life and carve out their own destiny without your interference.”

  “I’ll trade you the safety of these people for the sword.” Hera pointed out to sea.

  Thickening clouds threatened to obliterate the moonlight, but not before he caught a glimpse of a sail and the silhouette of a long, low boat.

  “I can make Aeolus shift the winds and drive them back to their homeland.” She drew a lazy circle with her finger. A puff of wind followed her gesture. She increased the speed of her circling finger. The wind intensified, driving the enemy toward the shore.

  “I have to light the bonfire. Alert the others.” He dashed to the stash of torches and the small hidden fire.

  Hera sent the torches flying over the wall into the sea. Her circling wind extinguished the fire. “Give me the sword and I’ll send the raiders home.”

  “Your price is too high!” He raced for the camp. “Sound the alarm! Raiders by sea!” He grabbed a dying torch from outside an officer’s tent and raced back to the unlit bonfire on the slight rise west of camp. He thrust the weak flame into the heart of the kindling.

  Hera appeared at his elbow. “You can’t protect both the sword and these humans, Herakles. I’ll find your hiding place while you fight off the invaders.”

  “You’ll need more time than that!”

  “The sword needs a hero to wield it. The days of great heroes are over. You were the last, until the mortal half of you died. Now you are little more than a ghost drifting through time,” Hera screamed, sounding very much like the rising wind.

  She was right.

  “You don’t have to do this, Herakles. Give me the sword and I’ll never bother you again. You can go back to Olympus.”

  He glared at her, waiting for the torch to ignite the damp kindling.

  “You won’t have to watch your mortal friends age and die. You will no longer be the only one who remains forever young while the rest of the world grows older, more feeble.”

  Herakles blotted Hera’s pleas from his mind. He didn’t have time to listen.

  Finally, the flames from his meager torch licked the heavier wood of the bonfire. They shot upward as the larger branches ignited. On the next hilltop, a league away, another bonfire flared to life. The next signal fire was beyond even Herakles’ immortal sight.

  Within minutes, every fighting man available mustered and appeared in formation, ready to meet the enemy as they landed.

  Hera dematerialized. Herakles doubted that she actually left him. She needed more information to find the sword on her own.

  Strength flowed through his muscles and sang in his blood as he ran for the beach. This was his destiny. To defend the weak against aggressors, to guard them against the interfering whims of greater powers, like Hera.

  Hours later, when there were no more enemies, Herakles lowered his club and sword and looked around. Four ships sailed away. Two more burned on the beach and broke apart as he watched. The last ship listed heavily to port in the surf where a submerged rock had pierced its hull. He’d help beat off this attack. How long would the raiders stay away this time? How many friends and comrades had died?

  “The world needs a hero to wield the sword for justice, not destruction like this!” he shouted into the wind. “But where will I find him?” he asked himself in a softer voice. Quickly he sorted through the current leaders. Most of the petty kings were too self-serving to draw together the varied peoples of this land. The High King of the tribes was a good general with strong leadership. Could he master the sword?

  Not just any warrior could maintain control of a weapon forged by a god. Not just any warrior could put the needs of his army and his people above the absolute power the sword could give. The man who wielded the sword needed to be honorable, just, fair, and a little bit humble.

  “You’re right, that isn’t any sword Hephaestus forged.” Hera rematerialized and pointed disgustedly at the dulled and bloodied blade in Herakles right hand. “Only your skill and strength kept that weapon intact. Where is the real sword?”

  “You’ll never find it, Hera. I’ll destroy it before I give it to you.” Something he should have done centuries ago—if a weapon forged by Hephaestus could be broken. But it was such a magnificent weapon, a symbol of justice and freedom. If he destroyed it, would those qualities of life disappear?

  “You could have helped, Hera.” Even now, he doubted any of the mortals could see her.

  “Why would I do that? Unlike you, I don’t like humans. I won’t stoop to interfering with the natural course of events.” She sniffed haughtily.

  “First time you’ve ever wasted an opportunity to meddle. You want to give the sword to someone who will abuse its powers. We can’t predict if your chosen assassin will stop his murder with the nymph—whose only crime, like my mother’s and many others before her—is to be beautiful.”

  For the first time in centuries, Herakles used his immortal powers. He dissolved his body, just as Hera had done before the battle. He had to move fast and free to stay ahead of her now. She could follow his trail across time and space, but it would take effort.

  Dark mist boiled over him. Cold pierced his body until his joints ached. Time and distance folded and collapsed into tiny pinpricks of light akin to the distant stars in the heavens. Each point of light winked at him in a different color. He reached for an obscure one that sometimes looked white, other times, blue and sometimes a pale pink. Time and distance lost meaning.

  Sunlight burst around him, dazzling his eyes and warming his body after the chill darkness. Trees and rocks took form. Birdsong and a gentle breeze in the tree tops whispered to him. At last the Earth became solid beneath his feet. He stood on a rocky ledge before a narrow crack in a mountain wall. Low shrubs and rubble hid the rest of the opening from casual view. A sparkling, clear lake stretched out from the outcropping where he stood. Its beauty drew the ordinary seeker away from the cave entrance.

  He ducked into the low opening. On a ledge to his left, he found the candle stub and flint he had left there. He struck a spark from the flint against the rock wall. The candle leapt to life.

  A few steps further into the cave and the flame exploded into a million points of light. Bright crystals clung to the ceiling of a huge cavern and filled its walls. In the center of the cave, a long narrow stone, seamed with marble, stood solitary vigil over the wonders displayed in the crystals.

  Men called Druids had worshipped here last. They were all dead, now. The altar abandoned, as lonely and useless as Herakles had felt when he realized what he had done to his family after Hera’s fit of madness left him.

  Where was the sword now? It should be resting atop the altar. Panic shot through him like Zeus’s lightning. Hera couldn’t have found this
cave in a forgotten corner of Britain so soon.

  If any mortal had stumbled upon the cave, the hallowed position of the sword on the altar should have discouraged trespassers from touching the relic.

  “Looking for this?” Echoes distorted the voice of the questioner.

  Herakles whirled around. His rapid movement sent the candle flame sputtering and waving. Shadows flitted across the crystals in demonic shapes, defying his eyes to keep up with them.

  A hunched figure, cloaked against the damp chill of the cave, stood up from behind the altar, holding the sword aloft in his left hand.

  This wasn’t Hera. She hadn’t had time to follow him.

  No trace of rust dulled the ancient blade. The star-iron glowed softly in the crystal’s prismatic light. Shorter and thicker than modern weapons, the edge glinted with a keenness only Hephaestus could hone.

  “Yes. It belongs to me,” Herakles replied, assessing the distance between himself and the shrouded figure. He automatically judged the strength of the arm that still held the sword aloft and the skill of the hand that clasped the grip.

  “I knew you’d come eventually. This is too powerful a weapon to leave unguarded for long. Some men would sacrifice the lives of their entire army to hold power like this in their hands.” The figure lifted his head. A rather full and shaggy white beard poked out from beneath the cloak’s folds.

  “It must never fall into the hands of one who would sacrifice so much for the sword and the power.”

  “Agreed.” The man moved around to the front of the altar. He shifted the sword to rest horizontally across his hands, almost offering it in peace.

  “Then I will dispose of it safely.” Herakles took another step forward. The man appeared old, very slender. He couldn’t carry much muscle on so spare a frame. “You can’t hope to protect it.”

  “I have my ways, though I find myself a little stiff and sore traveling forward through time to meet you. Only a few months, but enough to weary a body. You, I think have traveled further than I, a decade or two at most. Tell me about the sword.”

  “I do not know you. Why should I trust you?” The old man had come forward through time, as Herakles had done Such power shouldn’t belong to an ordinary mortal.