Clash of the Titans (20 page)

In that barren, forsaken country there was little that would burn. But like all soldiers, Thallo and his companions were no strangers to the ways of scavenging. Though tired from their ordeal in the temple and from the long, awkward descent down the cliff face, they still managed to locate enough brushwood and thornbush to fuel a comforting fire.

Now all were together again, well out of reach of any lingering animosity of the Stygian sisters. Their temple lay half a day's ride to the east. Nevertheless, Menas and the other officers were glad of the mountains that now lay between them and that abode of unwholesomeness.

The fire burned hot and fast before them. Castor and Solon lay against the warm rocks, chatting of the day's adventure and chewing the remnants of their supper. Thallo, Philos and Menas were curled up in their cloaks, already asleep and glad of it. Their comrades' conversation did not disturb them. Soldiers have the ability to sleep whenever the opportunity occurs.

Perseus and Andromeda had long since melted into each other's arms. Ammon dozed nearby. On a branch of a nearby tree—a live one, this time—the slightly tubby shape of Bubo the owl glowed rust red from the light of the flames his metal body reflected.

A soft neighing came from the horses. They were content despite the hard ride, having spent most of the morning at rest. Bubo joined them with a soft hoot, his metal owl eyes informing him that nothing stalked those seated or sleeping around the fire. Though no more than a tin dopplegänger, he took his assigned responsibilities seriously.

When not gazing into each other's eyes, Perseus and Andromeda stared solemnly into the fire. Each saw something different in the dancing flames.

Nearby, Ammon was not quite so content. He restlessly stirred the sand with a stick.

"The sands of time are running away like quicksilver, my young friends. Knowledge is useless without the time to employ it. Even Hercules did not have to rush from one labor to the next."

"You worry too much, old friend." Perseus smiled fondly at the tired playwright, whose beard shone silver by the fire.

"That's my way, boy
.
I suppose if I weren't such a worrier, I would never have become a writer. I'd have gone into a more respectable profession like goldsmithing or slave trading." He shrugged slightly. "But I do worry, and so I write."

"But you write comedies, good Ammon," Andromeda said and snuggled a little tighter against Perseus.

The poet grinned. "And the more I worry, the funnier my prose. I think that's the crux of comedy."

"This journey is no comedy." Perseus turned his gaze back to the fire. "According to Bubo, we'll be over these mountains sometime tomorrow." The owl hooted at the mention of his name.

"After that . . . the Isle of the Dead."

"Which is no comedy for sure!" Andromeda said bleakly.

"And then Medusa." Ammon looked skyward, remembering. "I wrote a play about her long ago. Many writers have been inspired to do so." The stick played with the sand.

"In my youth I was partial to tragedy. That was before experience taught me that life was quite tragic enough without having to spend all my time writing about it! I don't like to spend my time brooding, and writers of tragedies invariably reflect what they're writing about. No thank you, I'll stick to comedies."

"Medusa . . . forgive me, Ammon." Perseus looked embarrassed: "My formal education was somewhat neglected. She was a priestess of Aphrodite, I believe?"

"Not
too
neglected, my boy. You're right. She was a most beautiful woman, by all accounts. Beautiful enough to seduce a god, if she wanted to. She chose Poseidon.

"As it is told, they made love in the temple of Aphrodite, close by the altar itself, while Medusa laughed and joked and even taunted the goddess.

"It's said that Aphrodite is among the most tolerant and gentle of all the immortals, but this insult was too much even for her to forgive. So outraged was she that she transformed Medusa into a creature so hideous that one look from her would turn any living creature into stone." He grinned. "A perfect match for Calibos."

Andromeda looked earnestly at him. "Please. Even in jest, could we avoid mention of that name?" She shivered slightly, though the night was temperate.

Ah, you senile old fool, Ammon thought to himself. You have the manners and tact of a drunken elephant. That you who work with words should be so clumsy with them!

Andromeda had risen and walked away. Now Perseus hurried to join her, catching up with her just outside her tent.

"Ammon meant nothing, love. He was only trying to raise our spirits by distracting us from what lies ahead."

She turned, put her hands on his shoulders. "I know, he's a good person. It's just that anything that reminds me of Calibos . . ." She leaned against him and he held her close.

"Perseus, I'm so afraid for you."

"The Stygian Witches gave us no trouble."

"From what Thallo told me, you had time and space to maneuver. If you make a single mistake with Medusa you'll have no chance to correct it, no chance at all. And she's not a feeble old woman."

"How do you know that? No one's seen her and returned to say what she looks like."

She looked uncertainly at him, then broke into a delighted, girlish smile. "You're teasing me," she said, but the smile faded. "I wish there were another way."

"I wish there were also," he confessed to her. "But there isn't, or the witches would have said so. They swore by Olympus and Hades that this was the only chance we have of dealing with the Kraken.

"Thetis cannot alter or withdraw her pronouncement. This thing must continue to its end, like a ball of string unraveling. There's nothing we mortals can do save try to make the string end where we choose." He gently pushed her away.

"My love, tomorrow you must return to Joppa with Ammon."

"No. We've already gone through this, Perseus. I'm coming with you. To the end of the world, if need be. Or in this case, to the beginning of the underworld."

He looked resigned. "Then sleep now. We'll all have a good rest and ride after the sun is up."

She entered the tent ahead of him. As she stretched out, he knelt to kiss her. She let her eyes close.

"So little time together, darling," she whispered. "So little time . . ."

It was not difficult to ready the horses before daybreak. Supplies were silently packed and strapped on willing backs.

Ammon stood beside the dying, smoking fire and watched. Unperturbed at the prospect of being separated from their companions, the two untouched horses grazed peacefully nearby.

Perseus mounted his own steed, waved to Ammon. The poet nodded once and returned the salute. Joppa lay almost due south from their present position and he felt sure he could find the coast and a well-traveled road leading home. He was not especially sorry that Perseus had entrusted him with the princess's safe return. For all his voiced bravery he had no desire to visit the Isle of the Dead. His time to do that would come naturally and soon enough.

As for Medusa, one of Ammon's fondest dreams was that a bust of himself be placed in the theater outside Joppa; but he rather preferred it be fashioned by the normal arts of sculpture.

It seemed to Perseus as the morning wore on that he could hear the awakened princess sobbing, though he knew it had to be only his imagination.

He squinted at the sun. She would be awake by now, furious with Ammon for participating in the deception, distraught over the prospect of having to return to Joppa, and fearful for Perseus's safety.

First she would try to threaten and cajole Ammon into telling her the direction the riders had taken. Ammon would not tell her. Then she would search for hoofprints, but the riders had taken care to cover their departure well, and though resourceful, the princess was no tracker.

At last she would pack up camp with the poet and start on the long way back to Joppa; tearful, perhaps angry still, but on her way to safety. That was all that concerned Perseus. The Isle of the Dead was no place for a live young woman.

It was also no place for a live young man, he knew, but it helped his state of mind, knowing that she was out of danger.

"I'll come back, Andromeda, prepared to deal with the Kraken, or Thetis, or anyone else god or mortal who tries to force us apart!"

He'd made the pledge in a whisper, but Thallo had sharp ears. "An admirable vow, sir. Nothing finer to dedicate oneself to than love. Far better than a fickle people or callous king. That's why we ride with you now, instead of returning with the princess."

"It would be safer for you."

The old warrior took no offense. "A soldier can die only once, and this seems a cause worth dying for. And if we survive, what a tale we'll have to tell! Not to mention the gratitude of Queen Cassiopeia. She'll double our pensions, at least."

But Perseus was not fooled by this mercenary appraisal.

Another two days brought them to a shoreline in a valley thick with fog. It was a fog that never rose, never dissipated, hanging just above the surface of the lake. Some said it was composed of the last breaths uttered by the living before they passed forever into the realm of the dead.

Unlike the abode of the Stygian Witches, however, this place produced no rotting miasma. The air was clean, crisp, and fresh with the ever-present fog. It was as sharp as death, that moist air. A casual traveler might breathe it and find nothing unusual to remark upon.

But it was special to the soldiers. They knew it well, having breathed of it on many occasions.

A small stream led them to the lake. It was flanked by tall reeds that shielded several dry rises. Perseus raised a hand as they neared a wide one and turned to Thallo.

"You understand your orders?"

The soldier nodded. "I'd prefer to go with you, sir, but I understand. Philo and I will wait for you until after dark. If you don't return—"

"If we don't return," Perseus finished for him, "it will mean that we've failed." His expression was unreadable. "Dead men travel in only one direction on the River Styx. At least if we fail we will not have far to travel to the land of the dead." He turned and studied the mournful fog.

"It's told in some tales that the river itself possesses strange powers. Time to see if any of the legends are true."

"Surely the Stygian Witches would not lie to us about Medusa's home," said Menas.

"Oh,
surely
not," Thallo said sarcastically, but he found himself half hoping the three evil sisters
had
lied; that Medusa did not await Perseus and the others somewhere in the center of this strangely peaceful lake.

But if they had, he reminded himself firmly, then there would be no hope for the Princess of Joppa. Nor for Perseus—and he'd come to like and admire the young prince. He'd make a fine, just ruler some day—the sort of ruler who'd respect the desires and take the advice of experienced old soldiers.

If Andromeda and Perseus perished, whether at the hand of the Kraken or otherwise, Joppa would be thrown into turmoil. Queen Cassiopeia was past childbearing age and Andromeda was her only heir.

With the succession shattered, there would be civil war the length and breadth of Phoenicia as pretenders and hopefuls vied for the crown. Joppa would suffer in the conflict, and Joppa was his home.

No, the witches had to have told the truth. They had to succeed here. Far more than a marriage was at stake. Had the vengeful Thetis foreseen the chaos that Andromeda's death would eventually create? If so, she was subtly having her revenge on the entire city while seeming to threaten only one member of its royal family.

Well, the gods might be immortal, but they're not all-seeing, he thought. Perseus had outwitted the Stygian Witches. There was a chance he might do the same with the Gorgon.

The riders had dismounted and unpacked their gear. Philo took charge of the mounts, led them to the nearby vegetation where they cropped contentedly at the lush foliage, unaware of the troubles vexing their masters.

Bubo sat on Thallo's pommel, ticking away smoothly. The little owl was far more than a simple device for providing advice and instruction, Thallo knew. Its presence was a sign that not all the gods wished the destruction of Perseus, Andromeda, and Joppa. He wished he'd been given Perseus's gift of making sense of its jumble of clicks, whistles, and hoots.

It was speaking to Perseus now. Thallo watched in wonder until the grim-faced prince rejoined them.

"Bubo says he cannot come with me. He is restrained from accompanying anyone to the Isle."

"Why?" asked Menas.

"He says that if he visits the Isle of the Dead his own life will stop. I do not completely understand, but apparently his life force is not as flexible as our own. That which drives him would stop if he were to go that close to the underworld. He will have to stay here and wait with you, Thallo. He can't go along."

From its resting place, the owl buzzed sadly.

"Well, I know something that does have to go along." He fumbled at his purse. "Here. You'll need this."

Perseus accepted the four silver coins, jingled them in his hand. "Thanks, my friend. Money's the last thing I thought we'd use on this quest."

"For Charon, the ferryman," Thallo explained. "If he'll carry you. You won't outwit him, but his price is well known. Unless you'd rather swim, that is."

"I've no desire to travel with him," was Perseus's reply, "but the River Styx is no place for a swimmer to lose his way, and we don't know in which direction the Isle of the Dead lies. We'll offer him his due, and hope our unusual 'state' doesn't put him off."

Turning, he started off through the reeds, accompanied by Castor, Menas, and Solon. Thallo and Philo watched them depart.

"May the gods go with them," Philo muttered sadly, securing the last of the horses to a dead stump selected for that purpose.

"Nay." Thallo shook his head and gazed unrepentingly skyward. The heavens remained dull gray. "Let the gods stay out of this. I'm of the same mind as that babbling old poet. They've caused us enough trouble as it is. Why can't they be content with their own squabbles without always poking into the affairs of mortals?"