Clash of the Titans (11 page)

"And I wish I were a young man like you, so that I could experience it," Ammon replied, breathing harder than the horse. "You felt no fear, then?"

"Me? Why, of course!" His smile softened and he looked away. "At first I was utterly terrified. If I'd been given the chance I think I might have given up, let go. But the one place Pegasus did not fly me was close to the ground. I had to tame him or die." He gazed admiringly at the stallion as he talked.

"But once he sensed that I meant him no harm, when he felt comfortable with me, he relaxed, as did I. He is responsive to command and willing to obey, as smart a horse as ever I've ridden."

Pegasus looked up at him, his mouth full of flowers, and whinnied. He nudged Perseus with his muzzle. All the rage had gone from his noble face.

"See, he is more than responsive," said Ammon delightedly. "He likes you. Horse or men, it's all the same when it comes to friendship and understanding. He speaks to you with actions instead of words, but they are just as comprehensible."

Perseus nodded, wiping sweat from his face. He stumbled once and Ammon looked alarmed.

"You all right my boy? How do you feel?"

"Thirsty."

"I dare say. Excitement will dry a body out faster than the desert sun at midday. You sweated across half the sky, may the stars forgive you! I could do with something wet and cold myself. But we've neither amphora nor cups."

"I know just the thing." Perseus walked away, heading toward the water. "Stay with him."

"But I . . ." Ammon went quiet, looked up at the powerful animal. Nervously, he patted the white neck. It was like patting an anvil.

"Now then, don't fret, don't fret, my birdlike friend. Your master will be back in a moment. You don't frighten me, you know. You're only a horse, even if you can fly, even if you are gifted by the gods, even if you could trample me to a small, wet pulp under your hooves. No, you don't frighten me. Like Hades you don't.

"I should have brought an apple for you. Or maybe a pine cone. But I can't think of everything, can I? I'm only a poor old playwright. Be good, and I'll write you a sonnet some day."

The stallion reared slightly and whinnied. Ammon stayed close, tried to speak reassuringly. It was difficult, however, considering the quaver in his voice.

"Be good now, great Pegasus, master of the sky. Perhaps you'd prefer a whole play, eh?" He looked anxiously toward the water. What was that boy up to, and what was keeping him?

"Here it is!" came the call from the shoreline a moment later. Perseus's outline bent, his actions concealed by darkness. Then he was returning, something shiny cupped in both hands. Pegasus gave the distracted poet a friendly nudge and sent him stumbling. Ammon kept his instinctive response to himself, however.

Perseus held out the helmet of Athene, now brimming with fresh water. The horse eyed him for a moment, then sniffed at the helmet. And then he was drinking in long, noisy gulps.

"Ah, so you grew thirsty too, my fine friend." Perseus said as he stroked the muzzle with one hand.

By the time the stallion finished, there was only a little left in the helmet. Symbolically, Perseus finished it, then caressed the horse affectionately.

"You and me from now on, my friend without feathers. We drink the same water. Even our names are similar. Perhaps we are related, eh?" He grinned at Ammon.

"We did it, old man. We've tamed the one steed in all the world fit for a god to ride."

Ammon shook his head and spoke admiringly. "No, my boy.
You
did it." He raised a hand to still Perseus's protest. "I was amply rewarded by being privileged to watch. I will derive a most wonderful play from this night. That is pleasure enough for me."

Perseus held the helmet right-side-up, let it drip clean. "What now? I have a few poor skills, my good friend, but little knowledge."

The mood surrounding them turned somber. "When it comes to tracking gigantic vultures who carry off the astral shells of sleeping princesses, I am as poorly experienced as you, Perseus. We must plan carefully what you are to do next, for if it is truly Calibos who is behind these ghostly excursions of her spirit, only the wise and cautious may return to attest to it." He put a hand on Perseus's shoulder.

"I have grown fond of you in a short time, Perseus. And I even find myself feeling compassion for the Princess Andromeda, though I never thought I could feel sympathy for any member of royalty. I do not wish to see either of you become food for worms.

Andromeda tossed spasmodically on the curtained bed. Always the same dream. Always the same, always frightening, but somehow compelling. Yet it seemed no matter how hard she tried to scream, she could never wake herself up.

It was coming for her again, as it had so many nights previously. How could she tell it was night or day, fast asleep as she was? The small part of her consciousness that remained did not know. What it did know was that it would have to watch helplessly as that true part of her was drawn off, sucked away by some horrid compulsion she was unable to resist. She was weak now, so weak from the repeated draining of self that if it continued much longer she was certain she would die.

She no longer feared death, however. It was preferable to this unclean use of her inner self. Death would end the dreams and free her. A false freedom, she knew, but the only kind she could any longer look forward to.

Her body twisted and she cried out. Something was wrenching at her heart and mind, sending a shiver through her whole body. The magic that compelled her was urgent and brutal, content to have its way without regard for how it left her. She slumped once more, completely worn out, and devoid of hope.

Her second self rose and trod the path it had learned many times over. Down the marble dais, out through the archway, onto the balcony. The cage of gold awaited her there. Moist pools of crimson regarded her impatiently as she entered the open portal. The bars closed tight and she convulsively gripped the arms of her chair.

The vulture lifted from the balustrade. Once more it hovered, grasped the perch welded to the crest of the cage. It lifted ponderously into the night sky and soared to the northeast, retracing the same invisible path it had followed in coming. Nothing was changed, nothing was different.

Only one thing, perhaps.

This night, it had company.

High above and behind the bird, who was as easy to track on the cloudless night as a merchantman's dhow in an empty harbor, flew a far smaller, more agile shape. It was pale white and something dark sat on its back.

Perseus clung to the makeshift harness and kept his attention on the distant but still clearly defined silhouette of the vulture. The helmet and sword were secured to his belt. Ammon had urged him to take the shield also, but Perseus had declined, reasoning that its additional weight might reduce Pegasus's mobility.

"Besides," he'd told the poet, "if a sword that can slice through marble, and a helmet that renders its wearer invisible are not sufficient protection for one man, then I am unworthy to be husband to Andromeda."

Ammon had shaken a rueful finger at him in parting. "May your success match your gallantry, young Perseus, and not mark you an overconfident fool."

But the shield
was
heavy. Maybe the boy was right. Anyway, who was he to argue with him? He was a tired old writer, not a retired general. Marshal your words, Ammon, and let younger men marshal their weapons.

But damn, he'd thought as he'd watched man and horse soar upward into the night: I wish I were going with him.

The vulture continued to gain altitude, rising with mighty beats of its enormous wings. Perseus urged the stallion higher, hoping to remain far from the great bird's notice. It seemed intent only on carrying out its task of conveying the princess to some unknown destination, however, and paid no attention to the flocks of terrified birds it occasionally scattered.

A glance downward showed the towers and compounds of Joppa, lines of limestone and marble marring the earth. Behind him was the gleam of moonlight on the Mediterranean.

Perseus returned his attention forward, squinting into the wind and grateful that the night was not stormy. He'd spent too much time in too many small boats out on the ocean for the dips and rises of the flying horse to make him sick. But his mind was filled with too many other thoughts and worries for him to enjoy the spectacular ride.

Finally the vulture began descending toward a layer of low clouds. Perseus urged the horse to a faster pace, not wanting to lose sight of his quarry.

I've been asleep, he thought with amazement. Thank the gods I did not fall!

He roused himself to full alertness, watching the huge carrion-eater sink into a shifting, cloying mist. They were far from the cool shore breezes of Joppa now. The air rising from below was humid and hot. Where moisture met desert in the lowlands and where there was ample ground water, one sometimes found the foulest of swamps. It was a fitting home for the vulture.

And for its master, Perseus thought darkly. He dug his thighs into Pegasus's flanks, murmuring "Down." Soon they too were swallowed up by the mists.

As they dropped, the temperature began to rise. Soon it was uncomfortably humid, despite the fact that it had been a pleasant night in Joppa. Sweat rolled from both man and horse. Perseus peered downward but could see nothing, and had to hope his mount had a better sense of its surroundings than did its poor, blinded rider.

Then the mist seemed to lighten, letting the moonlight through, and he could see they were not far from the surface.

The trees of the benighted land were twisted as if in pain, their leaves hungry for the sunlight that rarely penetrated here. Bushes crouched low to the earth, as though ashamed of what this land had made them. There were no flowers. Even the reeds and rushes looked unhealthy, marked as they were by gray, scabrous growths that clung persistently to their stems.

Water moved like oil, sluggish and tired. In places noisome smells rose from bubbling pits of sludge. From time to time something hiding deep in this foul landscape would emit a challenging, lingering cry, a sound as devoid of beauty or grace as its surroundings.

Somewhere in that mist was a huge disturbance where something large moved. Feet followed cage as the vulture descended to the rheumy earth. It hovered carefully and let the golden prison settle easily onto a sandbar flanking what passed in that land for a flowing stream.

The door opened. The figure of Andromeda rose mechanically and stepped out. She began walking toward a dark, gaping hole in the mossy flank of a crumbling cliff. Cawing approvingly to itself, the vulture settled nearby on a massive exposed root the thickness of many trees. Its eyes closed. It would wait thus until summoned.

No normal young woman, no matter how brave, would stride so indifferently through that nightmare landscape. Toads and beetles the size of dogs crossed her path, scuttling or hopping out of her way. She ignored them; oblivious to their presence. A crocodile slid through the brackish water nearby, a lean, dark, green length of solid muscle. It edged in its loglike fashion closer and closer to the walking figure.

Then it took note of something unseen. The reptilian eyes could not show fear, but the carnivore turned instantly from its intended prey and dove with a violent slash of its powerful tail, leaving only a trail of bubbles in its wake.

There was a sound of footsteps and breaking twigs. The feet that made imprints on the soft earth were no longer entirely human. Once they were. Now they supported a demonic grotesquerie. Anger and magic had turned that powerful figure into something out of delirium. Its posture was crooked, the face a twisted mask of failed humanity, a true mirror of the mind that now lay buried beneath horn and bone.

It could not wait any longer within its lair and so had lurched out to meet Andromeda. She stopped. The silence that ensued was broken only by the sounds of bubbles bursting in the muck, by an excited cry from the briefly awakened vulture, and by a persistent, unpleasant, heavy breathing.

Two massive arms reached for the slightly swaying figure of the princess. They held the ends of a necklace of fine gold worked by the inhuman smiths who inhabit the border region between Earth and Hades.

"A gift for you," the figure growled thickly. Andromeda did not react. Her eyes stared vacantly forward, as though the gift-giver were not present.

Calibos placed the necklace around her throat, his hands trembling slightly at the nearness. Thick fingertips wrestled with the latch and finally succeeded in securing it. Then the man-thing stepped back, studying the effect of the necklace on that smooth, pale throat. It shone brightly even in the dim misty light, testimony to the skill of goldsmiths who worked with things finer than hands.

"It is good. It becomes you, Andromeda. Your neck flatters the gold." She did not respond.

He grunted hoarsely and turned to gesture imperiously toward the dark hollow in the cliff face. Obediently Andromeda resumed her walk, the beast following impatiently. He limped slightly on his cloven hoof, favoring the still human foot.

Once the place might have been a temple. Now it offered shelter only to creatures of the dark, to persistent probing roots and plants. Water dripped from the roof of crumbling limestone. The place had witnessed war and pestilence in eons past. Now it was to Calibos his refuge, to anyone else, his lair.

Skulls decorated portions of the cavern, their bleached curves whiter than the decaying marble they were perched upon. There were weapons taken from those foolish enough to cross into Calibos's domain, each spear or sword set by a matching skull.

Andromeda walked in, impassively moving past ruined blocks of stone which had tumbled to the floor, stepping over cracks and crevices. She knew what was expected of her. She halted before the ancient throne which Calibos had made his own. Silent and helpless, she stood there and waited.

Calibos marched up beside her, hesitated a moment as always, then ascended his throne. He sat silently studying her, one clawed hand tapping an arm of his seat. It was quiet in the cavern. As before, they had a waiting game to play out.