Hercules: The First Casualty: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys

By David L. Seidman

Hercules is drawn into the conflict between two neighboring towns only to discover that the source of the conflict appears to be Hercules himself.

As he struggles to undo the damage done by an imposter acting under the influence of powerful sources, Hercules finds allies in the most unlikely places. But will this be enough to avert an all-out war?

Based on the hit television series created by Christian Williams, The First Casualty continues the legendary journeys of Hercules—a hero who possesses a strength the world has never seen . . . a strength surpassed only by the power of his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781443445559

David L. Seidman

David L. Seidman is the author of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys: The First Casualty.

Book preview

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The First Casualty

David L. Seidman

Based on the Universal TV television series created by Christian Williams

Executive producers Sam Raimi and Robert Tapert

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Dryope the Beautiful, Queen of the Forest Nymphs, sat on a throne of polished oak, watching a ring of wood sprites frolic around her in a dance of adoration. As the slim girls leapt and pranced, their queen had but a single thought: If I don’t find something exciting to do, I’ll start pulling the legs off these obnoxious little fairies.

The queen stifled a sigh. She had found the dances and songs of worship very sweet the first time she had heard them—but after the first few centuries they grew dull. Wood nymphs were lovely creatures but short on imagination; they repeated themselves with tiresome frequency and at nearly endless length.

Dryope’s eyelids began to droop. Slowly her shoulders slumped and her head tilted forward.

Oh, our queen, do thy servants displease you? wailed the lead dancer, Prissia. Hurry, my sisters. We must redouble our efforts to inspire Her Glorious Majesty!

Dryope jerked up and blinked herself awake. No, NO! she thought—but it was too late.

From the beginning, my sisters! Prissia cried. Her shrill voice scratched inside the queen’s ear like a dirty fingernail. And a one and a two—

What manner of creatures are these? called a rough voice from deep in the forest.

Everyone froze.

Thank Hera, Dryope muttered. Time to go to work. She rose smoothly from her throne and gazed into the trees. Show yourself and name your name, she demanded.

A man strode from behind a tight stand of trees. As Prissia and the other nymphs squealed and fled behind her throne, Dryope took the man’s measure.

Smells pretty good for a mortal, she thought. He was big, taller than her. Black curly hair covered his broad form, from his wide shoulders and burly chest to his bulging calves. His only clothing was the skin of a lion across his body, tied at his right shoulder and left leg. His fingers, each thick as a boar’s tusk, wrapped around a gleaming dagger. A blood-spattered sword hung from one hip.

General? called a soft voice from behind the man.

A young man emerged from behind the stand of trees that had hidden the first man. The newcomer was slim, his skin pink with fresh sunburn. General, we’re standing exposed here and you did tell us that Pastoralians could attack at any time.

Shut up, Honorius, the general growled, continuing to stare at Dryope.

Begging your pardon, sir, the young man said quietly, but no. He stood straight as an iron rod. The men are exhausted from the march. I want to make camp here.

The general kept looking at Dryope, drinking in her blonde hair and blazing blue eyes. No, he said. March the men a mile from here. I want privacy when I . . . confer with the lovely lady before us. He flashed a gleaming smile at Dryope, who lowered her long eyelashes and blushed demurely. Make it five miles.

The younger man took a deep breath and stepped in front of his commander. General Ferocius, the men are tired. A march would—

The general grabbed Honorius by the chest and shoved him against a tree. He leaned in close and growled, Shut up, you little—

Leave him alone, a deep voice called.

Ferocius whirled round, dropping Honorius. He saw a tall, bronzed man striding through the forest. The muscles of the stranger’s arms were as big as pine cones, his chest was as broad as a door and his legs were as thick as oak trunks. But more fearsome was his expression. Clenched tight with anger, his entire face was as grim as a storm cloud and his eyes flashed as if full of lightning.

Ferocius froze. He had never seen the man before, but he recognized him at once. This was the son of Zeus, the king of the gods, and a human woman. He was a hero, the defender of the weak and the enemy of oppression.

Hercules, Ferocius whispered.

Dryope stared at the big man as he approached. Mmmmm, she thought. Yummy.

She glanced at Ferocius, who stood by and watched as the stranger dusted Honorius down and made sure he was all right.

Oh, Hercules, Dryope called, every syllable a musical note. She crooked a finger at him. Come here. I’d like to . . . chat with you. She sat down gracefully and crossed her slim legs. Behind her throne, the wood nymphs giggled.

Don’t do it, Hercules, Ferocius said suddenly. She’ll ensnare you with her beauty. She nearly got me before you came along. Come back with us, Hercules, he pressed. We’ve got a war brewing and we could use your help. My whole city-state would be grateful. In a low voice, he added, If it’s women you like, we have women aplenty, if you know what I mean.

I’ll be happy to help you, said the man with the gleaming muscles. He nodded at Dryope. Another time, Your Majesty.

Ferocius led Hercules into the misty woods. Honorius followed, troubled but obedient.

Dryope rose, tearing the arms of her throne off with a sharp snap. She squeezed and the wood burst into splinters. She shrieked terrible curses.

Prissia looked at the scowling face of her queen. Your Majesty? I know you’re upset and, well, we’d like to make you feel better . . . so . . . She took a deep breath. Hit it, girls!

As a dozen dryads danced, singing a hymn to the beauty of Dryope’s nose, the queen sank back on to her throne. Her mind had but a single thought: You’re going to pay for this, Hercules.

Chapter 2

A month later, Hercules sat on a beach on the island of Peloponnesus, watching a boat float off into the Gulf of Corinth and listening to his friend Salmoneus the peddler hurl loud curses at its skipper.

He was thinking of his family.

Zeus, king of the gods, had a temper as powerful as the lightning bolts he hurled from Olympus. Zeus’s wife, Hera, could hold a grudge for decades. Ever since Hercules’ birth, she had hated the sight of him and she frequently tried to kill him. Ares, the god of war and Hercules’ half-brother, would spark conflicts that killed hundreds simply because he couldn’t get fresh grapes for breakfast.

Wow, Hercules thought, I’ve got some special talents too. But no one could swear like Salmoneus.

And the boat you rode in on! the peddler concluded. Ha! Dump us, will he? he raged. Some boatman. I swear, just because there’s a little war coming, he gets all cowardly.

Relax, Salmoneus, Hercules soothed. He did tell us about this place.

He looked around. For an island on the brink of battle, it seemed quiet. The sands led up to a deep forest whose only sounds were the chirping of a few birds.

The sun was setting over the water. They should find shelter. He started walking up the beach towards the forest, with Salmoneus trailing behind.

It’s not the boatman’s fault, Hercules went on. This is a war zone. But even as he spoke he was looking around. Where was the war?

Salmoneus smiled. I’m not worried about trouble. I’ll just soak up some local colour, pick up a few wild stories, then I’m back to Athens before the fighting starts. I write a few scrolls about the island and bingo! I’m an expert on war-torn Peloponnesus. Lecture tours, lucrative speaking fees, the world. I’ll be famous all over the Greek isles. His tone turned dreamy.

Whatever you say, Salmoneus, Hercules thought, all the while listening out for danger.

Someone was moving in the forest. Hercules caught a glimpse of a short figure, hidden among the trees. The growing gloom of dusk made a clear view hard to get.

Who was it? Pan maybe, Hercules thought. He’s a short god, a forest god, and Peloponnesus is one of his homes. Better approach carefully; he’s a tricky one. One blast of those pipes of his and we’d be tangled in poison ivy.

Herc? Salmoneus asked.

Hercules shushed him. They crept into the trees.

This is great! Salmoneus whispered. Action already. Fame, here I come.

Hush, this could be danger—

A dozen soldiers burst out of the woods on all sides. Screaming, they thrust long, blood-tipped spears at the two men.

Hercules ducked, only to find Salmoneus standing frozen, like a young deer caught by the hounds. He grabbed the peddler