Clash of the Titans (16 page)

Finally the officer called Solon spoke up. "Prince Perseus, we all love the Princess Andromeda and would give our own fives to save her. You must know that. We are pledged to it."

Murmurs of agreement rose from his fellow warriors.

"But what is the use of dying if only death is served?"

"We must have some reasonable chance of success before it is worth taking that risk," put in Castor.

"One moment, please, gentlemen." Everyone turned to face Ammon, who had been content until now simply to watch while they talked out their fears.

"I said there was no way known to man to slay the Kraken," he said smiling. "There might be a way known to woman."

"How you love your riddles, old poet." Abruptly, Perseus's anger softened and he smiled back. "Well then, for those of us poor mortals not the master of words that you are, unravel your puzzle to us."

"There is more to it than you think, Perseus. I said there might be a way known to woman—woman thrice over. To be specific, three old, blind women gifted beyond all others of the Earth in the ways of prophecy. Three women as knowledgeable as they are ancient."

"Who are they?"

"The Stygian Witches, or so they have come to be called. They live well beyond the desert frontiers of Joppa, in the mountains of the north, toward Persia."

"Damn them, old fool, and you with them." Everyone turned to stare in surprise at Thallo. The usually phlegmatic warrior had bounded to his feet and was glaring at Ammon.

"Even if you found them, even if they showed you a way to defeat the Kraken, you would not live to use their advice."

"Why not?" Perseus asked, staring at him.

"It is said, sir, that they have a finely honed craving for human flesh. Once when the plague infested the city, the queen sent ambassadors to consult the blind oracles."

"Aye, I remember that time, though I was a youngster then." Menas regarded his colleague thoughtfully.

"And do you remember what happened?"

"Indeed," replied the soldier feelingly. "The ambassadors never came back."

"Nevertheless," Ammon insisted, "they are the only ones who might know a way to divert the Kraken, if not to slay it." He chewed his lower lip. "But their shrine is many days journey from Joppa, and we have only thirty given to us.

"That is no problem," Perseus assured him. "To Pegasus three days will be no more than three hours."

"The stallion of the air! Bless my soul, my boy, I'd forgotten." He scratched tiredly at his thinning hair. "Getting old, when I can't keep all the elements of the plot together."

Perseus clapped him on the back. "Never mind, old friend. You have offered a chance, and I will take it. I'll return with the information we need as soon as possible." He started out with the others close behind.

A pleading voice from behind halted them: "Perseus, take me with you."

Andromeda stepped out into the light and walked toward them. "If only as far as the Wells of the Moon. Just so that I may be with you a while longer."

Perseus gazed at Ammon, then Thallo. The poet glanced away and the old soldier simply shrugged.

"I may be going to my death," he told her softly.

Her reaction was not what he expected: she laughed. "I would rather die at the hands of a witch than in the jaws of the Kraken. If I am to be devoured, far better by something human than by some ancient monster."

"But the demand of the goddess," Solon hastened to remind her.

She looked sharply at him. "What should it matter to her how I die? She will have gained my death and that is what she wishes. And perhaps Perseus's as well. We may die together. That should please her." Her eyes turned back to stare into Perseus's own.

He held out a hand. She slipped hers into it.

It is known that when the gods are angry, the storms roiling atop Olympus are more violent than anywhere else in the world. Less is certain about the weather when the immortal inhabitants of that mountaintop dimension are merely irritated and confused.

Thetis stood before the throne of Zeus. Behind her stood Poseidon, Hera, Aphrodite and Athene, with the owl who served her as the symbol of wisdom and learning. The owl had turned its back on the king of the gods as though signifying its own disapproval of the course events were taking down on Earth. But Zeus failed to notice the movement, for the owl was as sly as it was wise.

"Your judgment was harsh," the king of the gods muttered from atop his throne.

"By insulting me, they blasphemed against all the gods!" Thetis snapped at him. "Did anyone in that vast assembly in the temple of Joppa object to their queen's odious comparison? Did
anyone?
No!"

"There was an old priest who—" Athene started to whisper, but she broke off at a warning look from Hera. Things were complicated enough.

"Against even you this blasphemy strikes," the furious Thetis concluded.

"Yes, yes," Zeus agreed irritably, acknowledging Thetis's claim with a wave of one hand. "Then of course your decision must stand. Now leave me."

Thetis departed, looking satisfied and smug. Poseidon sighed, the sound of deep ocean currents, and trailed after her. No matter how hard he tried to stay clear of the arguments and quarrels of Olympus, it seemed he was always drawn in.

Of course, if Thetis was right . . . and Zeus
had
agreed with her. The sea god emphatically wished his brother had never consigned the Titan to his care.

Zeus stepped down from the throne and crossed to confront the three remaining goddesses. His hands were clasped behind his back and his manner was changing from despairing to determined. Hera watched him warily, all too familiar with that look. Her husband was plotting something.

"It seems that young Perseus is moving into danger."

"He will find the Kraken a somewhat more formidable foe than that reprehensible Calibos," Hera said, and her tone reflected that she was not entirely displeased with the path events were taking.

"And your helmet is lost to him now?" he asked Athene.

"Swallowed by the swamps, Father. Lost forever to man. A great pity, too; I took pride in its fashioning. It was a fine bit of work, to make the metal bend the light around it like that."

"I agree. A great pity—replace it with another gift."

"That's not fair," Hera objected. "Athene has already given her gift to the young man, as did Aphrodite and myself."

"It was agreed that he should have the assistance of all three of you until this matter was completely resolved. Thetis's intervention has postponed that resolution, Therefore, he is properly entitled to continuing aid from all of you. He retains the sword and shield." He looked sternly at Athene, for all that she was his favorite.

"Replace the gift."

"Another helmet?"

"No." For a moment he was silent, thinking.

"Perseus needs knowledge far more than weapons of war. This Ammon he has struck up a friendship with is an admirable and wily old mortal, but his wisdom is lacking in certain areas. That is what Perseus most requires. And you, daughter, goddess of wisdom, are best suited to see that he receives it."

"I cannot wave my hand and make him wise," she pointed out.

"No, but we can offer him proper council," he said, looking toward her shoulder. "Give him the wise companion, Bubo the owl. It can supply advice when advice is required. Give Perseus also the ability to understand the owl's talk. This is my wish.
And
my command."

At that, he turned and stalked away from them, much pleased with his decision.

"Never!" Mildest and most even-tempered of the goddesses, Athene was furious. "Father goes too far in his defense of this Perseus."

"It is Zeus's command." Hera was sympathetic. "You cannot disobey."

"No, I cannot." Her anger was quickly overtaken by busy thoughts. I must give Perseus 'the wise companion, Bubo the owl.' So Father Zeus demands. An owl of mine named Bubo." She turned and walked off, muttering to herself.

"Now what do you suppose she's up to?" Aphrodite wondered aloud.

Hera watched the younger goddess disappear into the mists. "I don't know, mistress of affection." Then she grinned. "But if I know Athene, she will surprise us all, including Father Zeus."

The pool of water rested mirror-bright and unchanged near the center of the Wells of the Moon. Only Artemis's chariot had moved since the fateful night when man and horse had reached an understanding on this spot. It had turned slightly, and so the moon was no longer full.

The beat of wings sounded above the mating groans of frogs and the drone of night bugs. Pegasus dropped from the sky and landed on a slight rise overlooking the pond.

The stallion surveyed its territory. There was no sign of the man-friend it had come to love and serve. In heart and mind the horse knew he would soon return, and they would again skip clouds together.

Thirst impelled it down the gentle slope toward the water, where it bent and sipped noisily, sending spreading ripples across the still pond. There was a rustling from the far side of the surface but the horse did not hear it.

A crack split the night air and Pegasus's head jerked sharply upward. It was not the crack of thunder but a higher, unnatural sound. Something stung the stallion's neck and tightened around it.

Calibos dug his hoof into the earth and leaned back on the whip. He had it wrapped around the arm with his one hand and was shouting furious commands as the stallion bucked and reared.

The vegetation surrounding the pool erupted things that might once have been men. They swarmed around the kicking, neighing horse, carrying ropes and netting.

"Net!" Calibos roared. "Quickly, before it rises from the earth!"

Pegasus struggled violently, but the whip around its neck burned when it tried to pull free and Calibos's weight kept the stallion from positioning itself properly in order to fly.

The air was filled with nets. They were designed to catch creatures of the sea, but Calibos had suspected they would work with equal efficiency on something that swam through air.

The stallion continued to kick and to beat its mighty wings, but the harder it fought the more entangled it became in the nets. Entwined in the netting, its forelegs crossed. Finally it went down, bruising leg and wing alike.

Calibos felt confident enough now to let go of the whip. There was a burn the length of his forearm where the hide had rubbed off the skin, but he felt only pleasure as he limped toward his servants.

Additional nets were cast over the struggling, muscular prisoner until finally the great beast was exhausted. He lay on the damp earth, breathing heavily and eyeing Calibos with helpless fury.

The Lord of the Marsh stopped and bent close to the entangled head. "Well, intruder. No longer will you carry spies and troublemakers to my home. I toyed with your cousins. Their hunting once gave me pleasure and food. For that and for other things Zeus did this to me." He ran the fingers of his remaining hand across his misshapen features.

"But I could never quite trap
you.
You were always a little more clever, a little stronger than the others. But by taming you, that meddler Perseus caused you to relax your watchfulness just a trifle. Just enough.

"Let him do what he will now, but he will do it alone and not on the back of the master of the skies."

One sharp hoof kicked out suddenly. Calibos jumped back, but not in time. It caught him a glancing blow on one shin and he hobbled about in pain. There were unearthly giggles from the assembled swamp things. A stare from Calibos reduced them instantly to silence.

Gingerly feeling the bruise on his leg, the Lord of the Marsh glared at the stallion.

"A last defiance, my friend. I welcome the pain. It reminds me of the damage you have helped do to me, you and this Perseus. The pain is good. It will keep me from forgetting—" He whirled, angrily addressed his servants.

"Make ready while I call the others with the cart. I do not fear Perseus and his friends, but the sooner we return home the longer I will have to relish this moment."

He pulled a crooked hunting horn from his belt. Its curved sides were covered with obscene cameos. A sharp, atonal bellow drifted across the Wells of the Moon, beckoning forth additional undead to give assistance to their lord.

The sounds ringing through a little-visited section of the Olympian domain were no less discordant, but they were sharp and metallic in contrast to the mournful baying of Calibos's horn.

This was a darker, dingier, less perfect region of the realm of the gods. Its master preferred it that way. Dirt could be found here, a discomfiting reminder of mortality. There was neither marble nor graceful columns. The air was heavy with soot and grime, not because the master of this place was unable to banish it, but because he found it comfortable.

In many ways Hephaestus was impatient with his godliness. Like the dour Poseidon, he had little use for the grandeur of Zeus's court or the intrigues that were hatched there. His concerns were somewhat less than cosmic. He preferred eternity uncomplicated.

Furthermore, he was lame, and knew his imperfection was a distasteful sight to his fellow gods and goddesses. It reminded them that for all their powers and immortality, they were less than perfect. Hephaestus did not even care much for nectar and ambrosia, oftentimes preferring more earthly, mundane nourishments.

Of all the gods, he was the most human.

At the moment he was seated working at his favorite workbench. A perpetual fire blazed behind him, his foundry kept hot by the diverted beating of Olympus's own volcanic heart. Strange metals had been forged in that blaze, alloys that would not be known to men for thousands of years.

At the moment, however, the god of the forge was playing with more common metals. Athene sat watching him from nearby, ignoring the soot that was accumulating on her immaculate gown. From her shoulder, the wisest of owls, snowy Bubo, looked on with huge, interested eyes.

At one end of the bench was a drawing of suprahuman complexity. Metal gears and wheels lay scattered across the workbench, filling buckets and barrels nearby, spilling onto the floor.