Storming Paradise Page 2

  The griffin cried out again in its frustration, a sound somewhere between a bird’s caw and a lion’s growl. Hercules slipped back farther under the weight, and suddenly his head was hanging over the edge of the cliff, ocean waves lapping seventy feet beneath him.

  “Is that thing really yours?” Iolaus asked. “You have a griffin?!”

  The robber looked up and smiled. “Just a little back up,” he said. “Used to have a dog too, but the griff ate it.”

  Iolaus spat a curse. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

  At the same moment, Hercules was shifting his weight where he was trapped beneath the griffin’s muscular torso, trying to get back on the path as the monster pushed him farther over the edge. The griffin lunged for him again, head darting forward like a bird’s, vicious beak cutting the air as it tried to peck him, wings flapping in irritation. Hercules watched the griffin’s eyes, timed the next attack and dodged his head just from the shearing beak as it cut towards him. The griffin’s beak whooshed beside Hercules’ head, driving past the edge of the path before burying itself two inches into the cliff. The cliff’s edge crumbled with the impact, flecks of stone the size of a man’s knuckles breaking off and dropping towards the distant ocean.

  In that moment, Hercules regained purchase and shifted his hands so that they rested beneath the monster’s ribcage. Then he gave an almighty shove and suddenly the creature was airborne, albeit for just a couple of seconds, as it was thrown back into the cave. In those instants, Hercules pulled himself up, rolling aside and leaping away like a sprinter off the starting blocks.

  Behind Hercules, the griffin shrieked its ugly cry once more, wings flapping as it struggled to regain its balance.

  Although Hercules was turned away, Iolaus was not and he noticed something about the griffin that his friend had not. “Its wings have been clipped,” he said with astonishment. Then he turned his attention back to the robber. “You’ve clipped its wings!”

  The robber held his hands out dismissively. “What did you expect? I found that bird as an egg, but short of learning to fly there’s no way I could have—”

  Iolaus shot him a look. “Shut up.”

  The griffin was back out of the cave, its chain leash long enough to grant it a vast freedom of movement as it hurried after the man who had threatened its master. Hercules ducked and weaved, dodging out of the monster’s path as it slashed a mighty paw at him, razor-sharp talons cutting through the air. He could keep dodging the beast, perhaps, but with the path as narrow as it was, there was nowhere he or Iolaus could escape to short of retracing their steps and heading back the way they had come.

  “Iolaus?” Hercules called. “Do you have any ideas?”

  Iolaus held up his hands in submission. “Why are you asking me? I’m a hunter, not a lion tamer!”

  “Well, don’t you have one of your old hunter’s tricks to get us out of this?” Hercules asked as the tame griffin stalked towards him with a bellow of fury.

  Then the monster pounced.

  Hercules ducked below the lunging griffin, jabbing upwards and back with his elbow until the blow connected with the thing’s beak. The griffin rocked in place as the two mighty halves of its beak snapped shut, snorting in pain.

  Hercules took the momentary lull in the attack to scramble away, moving in a running crouch towards Iolaus and the robber.

  The robber was back on his feet, smiling smugly as he watched the man who had tried to best him struggle under the attack. “You can’t outrace a griffin,” he taunted. “Darn things are faster than lions and they’ve got a real taste for human flesh.”

  Without slowing his pace, Hercules reached for the robber, grabbing him with both hands so that his arms were pressed against his sides. Then, with a swift maneuver, he lifted the robber bodily up off the ground and spun him, before depositing him down behind him, between himself and the griffin.

  “If he likes human flesh so much, why don’t you feed him?” Hercules asked. He did not want the man to get eaten, of course, but he figured that if anyone could calm the beast, it would be its owner and adoptive parent.

  The griffin took two steps forward then stopped, its face just inches from that of the robber. The robber laughed, turning back towards Hercules and Iolaus. “Idiot!” he jeered. “Griff here wouldn’t hurt me. I’m his mommy and his daddy, aren’t I?” As he spoke, the highwayman was unclipping a particular link that was located along the griffin’s chain. In an instant, he had untethered the leash from its tie in the cavern mouth.

  “The man has a point,” Iolaus insisted as he and Hercules stood together a dozen feet away. “I suggest maybe we find us another path. Or perhaps another island,” he added, glancing out across the clear water of the harbor.

  “Iolaus,” Hercules began in a calm tone, “do you still have my water skin?”

  “Do I . . . ?” Iolaus couldn’t quite process Hercules’ words; maybe it was because of the pounding of racing blood in his ears, or maybe it was the bu-dum, bu-dum drumbeat of his thudding heart. “You want your . . . water . . . ?”

  Hercules offered his companion a patient smile. “If there’s any left.”

  In a moment, Iolaus had handed Hercules his water skin, his hands trembling. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you, pal,” he said as Hercules took the water skin, while the angered griffin blurted out a bestial howl. “Didn’t think we’d go out as something’s dinner.”

  “No one’s going to be anyone’s dinner,” Hercules insisted and he stepped forward as the unleashed griffin started its run along the narrow path.

  The griffin charged, large feet pounding against the ground with an echo like a blacksmith’s hammer against anvil. Undoing the water bottle, Hercules threw the contents at the griffin as the two combatants neared, dropping down to the ground as the monster lunged for him. Instead of smashing against Hercules, all the griffin got was a face full of water—and for just a few seconds its vision was obscured as the water splashed into its narrow-set eyes.

  Hercules slid under the monster’s caroming body, holding his arms tightly to his sides as he skidded across the dirt.

  Iolaus, too, pulled himself tight, wishing in that moment that he was a whole lot smaller. But he need not have worried. The momentarily blinded griffin was still running, and in an instant it had reached the hairpin corner of the cliff top path.

  An instant later, the beast went running off the edge of the path, its chain jangling behind it as it hurried over the side. In that moment, something else happened too—unexpected but somehow fitting; the man who had raised the griffin from an egg and used it to bully and rob anyone unlucky enough to use this track, found his leg caught up by the flailing chain. Before he could even process what was happening, the robber found himself hurtling along the path after his pet griffin, bouncing flat on his back as the griffin went plummeting over the side. An instant later he disappeared over the side, his ankle still caught up in the chain leash that was attached to the griffin’s neck.

  Iolaus and Hercules scrambled to the side of the cliff but they were too late to help the robber. They watched as both he and his pet beast went plummeting down towards the distant ocean, accompanied by the robber’s tortured scream of absolute fear. The beast hit the water first with a loud splash and the man’s scream came to an abrupt end an instant later as he went down beneath the waves.

  Hercules watched for a moment, ready to jump in after the man.

  Iolaus looked at his partner as Hercules pulled his shirt up over his head. “You crazy? That guy tried to rob us.”

  “He needs our help,” Hercules insisted.

  But before he could jump, the man reappeared, bobbing to the surface, arms and legs waving. The griffin and the chain were nowhere to be seen.

  “Put your shirt back on, hero,” Iolaus told Hercules. “He looks all right to me. Just a bit wet.”

  Pulling his shir
t back on, Hercules chuckled. “You realize our friend there would have been okay if he hadn’t clipped his pet’s wings.”

  “How so?”

  “The griffin would have soared to safety,” Hercules explained, “and found a perch somewhere on dry land.”

  “Probably would have eaten ‘Toll Road Telemachus,’ there, in the process,” Iolaus said.

  Hercules looked at his friend askance.

  “Hey, I didn’t say that would have been a good thing,” Iolaus justified.

  “You thought it though,” Hercules said.

  “Can’t blame a guy for wanting a little payback, can you?” Iolaus asked as the two friends continued down the narrow cliff path.

  As they passed the cave where the man had waited in ambush, Hercules and Iolaus glanced inside. A handful of items glittered in the darkness, gold and gems and trinkets of colored glass, along with a pair of well-worn boots that the robber had presumably stolen from another unsuspecting traveler. There was not much—the man probably used a fence to get rid of the items every few days—but it was clear he had made a living out of the misery of others.

  Hercules pocketed the handful of gold, gems and trinkets and slung the boots over his shoulder. “Maybe we’ll be able to return these to their rightful owners down there in the village,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Iolaus agreed. “Like I said before—that guy had a dunking coming. I don’t imagine he’ll be missed.”

  Hercules shot him another of his judgmental looks, the one that said it was all too easy to assume the worst in people, even robbers.

  Iolaus held up his hands in surrender. “Hey. To show you what a swell guy I can be, I’ll buy you a drink at the first inn we come to.”

  “You don’t have any money, Iolaus,” Hercules reminded him.

  “So? I’ll tell jokes until someone pays me enough to buy you a flagon of ale.”

  “I think I preferred my chances with the griffin,” Hercules muttered as the two friends continued on their way towards the village. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long, thirsty evening.”

  Hercules and Iolaus followed the path as it turned away from the cliff’s edge, widened and descended towards the coastal village with its boats and white buildings. By the time they had reached lower ground, the sun was a slit of burning red on the horizon, painting the backs of the cliffs the pink hue of the flesh of a strawberry. Long grasses crouched at the foot of the high path, swaying with the breeze as the warm air of the day began to cool.

  As the companions strode out onto the scrub beyond, Iolaus looked back at the path they had traveled. Here it was as wide as any road, sufficient for two carts to pass with ease, but up there it had narrowed.

  “Got to hand it to that guy,” Iolaus said, with a grudging admiration. “If you’re going to set yourself up as a robber, you couldn’t have picked a better spot for an ambush.”

  Hercules nodded. “Come on, friend, let’s see what the local tavern serves and how one might go about paying.”

  They reached the village limits about ten minutes later. By then, the sun had set and the constellations were visible in the indigo sky. They heard the sounds of the party even before they left the scrubland for the road into the settlement, this track showing the evidence of hoof prints and cart tracks up and down its length as it circled away from the harbor.

  “Hear that?” Iolaus asked, pointing vaguely at the air above his left ear. “Music. Laughter. Someone’s having a party.”

  “Perhaps they heard of our coming before we did,” Hercules joked.

  Iolaus offered a cunning smile in response. “You know what a party means, don’t you?” When Hercules did not respond, Iolaus continued. “Free food! Free booze! Maybe even a little company and some job prospects.”

  “‘A little company’?” Hercules repeated uncertainly.

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking,” Iolaus said. “It seems that every time we get involved with members of the fairer sex that it ends up we’re being manipulated by Hera or Ares or . . . what was that chick’s name, the one with the black hair and the brother with the laugh?”

  “Discord,” Hercules reminded him, saying the name as though he had just tasted something unpleasant. “Deimos and Discord.”

  Iolaus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, how could I forget? But what I’m trying to say is, you never know—you know?”

  Hercules frowned. “No. I think.”

  So they followed the road to the village, and from there they followed the sounds of music and laughter, hoping to score a free meal, some free drinks and maybe a little company, just as Iolaus had said. And if the owners of the boots and trinkets were there, that would be all the better.

  Chapter 3

  The street party was not hard to find. The village was small, just a few streets crossing one another in a central square. From there, the strains of music and laughter rang out loudly, the whole event just a street away. Tympanum drums drummed, pipes piped and lyres strummed in time with the harmonizing voices of men and women, at least three tunes being sung at once. The party itself had taken over the whole street, from the back of a grocer’s store all the way along to the flower beds of old woman Galene’s back porch, with colorful bunting running its whole length. The grocer and old woman Galene were there, feasting on spit roast boar, sampling wine so sweet that they could not remember having ever tasted its like.

  Into this scene of Dionysian excess strode Hercules and Iolaus, in search of a good meal and a place to rest. As they stepped onto the street, young women danced around them, trailing fluttering ribbons behind them as they briefly incorporated these newcomers into their dance.

  “Come join us,” cried one, and another repeated the refrain, brushing Iolaus and Hercules with her fluttering ribbon. The women wore short, white dresses that reflected the moonlight and barely covered their hips, their hems fluttering against the swish of perfectly tanned legs.

  “I’m looking for the owner of—?” Hercules began, holding up the boots he had retrieved from the robber’s cave.

  The girls laughed and moved on, taking light, prancing steps on bare feet as the music played on all around them.

  Iolaus watched them go, all light steps and long legs.

  “Let’s see if we can find the owner of these items,” Hercules said as Iolaus watched the women. “Surely someone around here must . . .” He stopped, realizing that his companion was transfixed by the pretty women. “Iolaus?” Hercules asked, and then snapped his fingers before Iolaus’ face.

  “Huh? Wha—?” Iolaus said, like a man waking up. “I was just . . .”

  “I know what you were ‘just,’” Hercules assured him. “Come, let’s find ourselves a drink and see if anyone knows who owned these boots.”

  It did not take long to find either food or drink. A spread of food had been laid out on a series of tables placed together that ran at least half the length of the street. There were hot dishes, stews and soups flavored with the most aromatic spices. There was warm bread too, fresh from the oven and so light that it tore apart with barely any effort. There were sweets, two whole tables arranged with dishes of spiced apples, mangos and oranges, bowls of grapes and cherries and fine, plump strawberries. There were more exotic dishes too, dates marinated in wine, carved meats smothered with sauces made from fruits and vegetables and berries. Plates and wooden bowls were piled in regularly spaced stacks along the table, and the party’s participants were encouraged to pick and choose as much as they wanted, and to return often for seconds, thirds and fourths. As Hercules balanced rashers of spiced pork on his plate, a rotund man reached past him to add another morsel to the already gravity-defying masterpiece that he had created on his own plate. “It’s my ninth helping,” he said as he caught Hercules’ eye, “and there’s still more to try.”

  Hercules offered a wan smile in reply. “I hope it tastes as good as it smells,
” he said.

  The rotund man laughed. “Better! So much better!” Then he was off, rifling through another dish with a set of tongs.

  There was also the drink, ales and wines and honey-flavored mead, casks and barrels and skins of the stuff, with more appearing as each vessel was emptied.

  Besides the food, the drink and the music, there were also games. Attendees could enjoy variants of skittles and dominos, hoops and darts and games of chance that involved balls and numbers and spinning wheels. All told, it seemed that everyone was having a good time, even the people who had landed themselves the task of providing the entertainment or of refilling people’s goblets, bowls and platters.

  “You know, Hercules,” Iolaus said as he raised a goblet of wine to his lips, “I think we’ve landed on our feet here.”

  Hercules took a seat on the steps of one of the houses that backed onto the street, chewing on a duck drumstick that sent steam into the night air in flurries. “I think you could be right,” he agreed, “but we’re still no nearer to finding out who owns these boots and the other trinkets.”

  Iolaus took a seat beside Hercules, placing his plate on the ground beside him. “Ah, what’s the rush? We’ll find them. Just look for the person without any shoes.”

  Hercules laughed. “Those dancing girls were barefoot, weren’t they?”

  “I believe they were,” Iolaus agreed. “Maybe I should go speak to them.”

  Iolaus did just that, although his inquiries soon involved dancing, and before long both he and Hercules were fully committed participants to the all-night street party as it trundled its way into the small hours on a noisy journey towards dawn.

  The party’s attendees encompassed almost everyone from the village, Hercules concluded. There were close to one hundred people here, spanning all ages and both genders. Everyone was in high spirits too, thanks to the atmosphere of upbeat music and flowing alcohol. There were kids running around, giddy with the excitement of being out so late, and there were old folks congregated around games of chance or skill that only they seemed to understand the rules for, all played for the tiniest of rewards and the loudest of cheers. Between those two extremes were the adults, some keeping an eye on their children, as they drank from goblets of wine or ale, others dancing with the music, or making secret liaisons in shadowy doorways that were nowhere near as secret as they presumed to believe.