Clash of the Titans (23 page)

The plethora of torches must mean that Medusa had the vision of a normal creature and could not see in the dark. The flaming brands were in place for her benefit, to expose her enemies to her.

If they must fight, then let her suffer under a handicap too, he thought.

Making a quick dash for yet another of the statues, he swung his sword in a wide arc. It cut cleanly through the torch he'd aimed for. The burning wood tumbled into the ritual pool and sputtered out. A louder hiss came from his stalker but he didn't turn to see where she was.

A moment's pause, then another dash and another torch out. A third, a fourth. The light in the chamber lessened and the shadows grew deeper as darkness began to steal through the grotto.

Medusa started to hunt more seriously among the columns, bow at the ready. The last of her quarry was proving unusually elusive. In the increasing darkness it was hard to tell shadow from man. There— She fired and the arrow just missed the streaking, dodging Perseus, shattering on the wall just behind him.

This was no good. The man must have exceptional hearing. He must be avoiding her by listening for the sounds of stone grinding beneath her body. She stopped and listened intently herself, eyes flickering like green flame in the dimness.

Another torch went out and she whirled, too late to see the man who'd knocked it free of its holder.

"Medusa!"

Her body whipped around again. The man's boldness was astonishing. There he was, gesticulating at her from the base of the staircase, hopping in and out from behind a column.

A fine game, this, she thought. But time to put an end to it. He was taunting her by matching his agility against her own. Well, he was quick, that she wouldn't deny. But not so quick as an arrow. She permitted herself a toothy grin. Soon he would be something less than quick and she could study him at length.

She let the bow and arrow hang loosely, as though she were indifferent now, but all the while she was sliding to one side to obtain a slightly better angle.

Once more he jumped out, making faces at her. The shield he held before him was broken along the rim, whether from the force of her arrows or from being sent flying against the rock she couldn't tell.

In her excitement at finally having a clear shot, she failed to notice that the shield Perseus held was different from the one he'd entered with.

The arrow was sent flying straight and true toward its intended target. There was a metallic whang as it hit the man in the chest, instead of the soft thuck it usually made when piercing flesh. The image of the man went flying through the air, a distorted, flattened shape.

For a second the Gorgon was overcome with confusion. It was followed by a hot flash of outrage.

The image!

Tricked!

She'd been stalking the man's reflection in a shield.

Perseus let fly the broken shield he'd found with all his remaining strength. As a youngster he'd participated in all the traditional sports. Though slighter of build than many atheletes, his wiry strength enabled him to become fairly competent at such events as the jump, the run . . . and the discus.

The Gorgon was just turning when the serrated edge of the old shield struck her, decapitating her as neatly as an axe. There was a brief, half-begun shriek that was cut off quickly as the head spun from the neck. Perseus had turned away the moment he'd let loose the shield, lest his eyes contact those of the severed head as it fell.

When he finally regained the shield and used it to look toward the thrashing noises filling the chamber, the sight was enough to make him want to vomit.

The headless body of the Gorgon still writhed and jerked spasmodically with a ghastly, animate life of its own. It curled and tightened about a nearby column. Gradually this sprung watchspring of tortured energy ran down and the muscular snake shape was reduced to a harmless twitching. Blood flowed in a steady stream from the stump of the neck. He would have to hurry.

Using the mirrored inner surface of Castor's shield, he worked his way toward the place where the severed head lay. Removing his cloak, he bent over it and, still keeping his eyes averted, managed to wrap the head in the material. He had to be careful to avoid the dripping blood. Where it touched the floor it ate away the marble.

But it did not seep through the cloth of crimson protected by the power of the crystal eye borrowed from the Stygian Witches.

The floor of the grotto was turning into a steaming inferno as blood from the headless corpse bubbled away the marble and steamed away the waters of the ritual pool. He started to recover his own shield, only to discover that a thick stream of the venomous liquid was flowing between it and his present position. It was wide and shallow, too broad for him to jump. The base of the shield was already dissolving into the corrosive fluid.

A face that had spoken to him once before, in the amphitheater outside Joppa, reappeared now in that dimly lit surface.

"Go now,"
the voice directed him.
"Tomorrow is the eve of the longest day. Go, and swiftly,"

Perseus needed no additional urging. As the marble continued dissolving, ancient columns began to groan dangerously. The blood was threatening to undermine the entire temple complex. Any second now it might come crashing down on him and all his hopes. He'd not come this far and accomplished this much to lose it all in a simple rockfall.

Holding the precious prize under one arm and his sword in the other, he turned and raced for the staircase.

Behind him, the face in the shield impassively watched his retreat until the metal vanished in the river of blood.

Whether the souls of the many murdered and petrified by Medusa had ever found rest, Perseus had no way of knowing, but at least now their bodies were returned to the earth. Blood lapped at their bases, stone hissed and was vaporized. The ritual pool was now mother to a cloud of crimson steam.

Groans and creaks sounded louder as Perseus emerged from the entrance to the underground grotto and raced down the temple steps. Moments later he was once more outside the temple. The thick fog and desolate terrain of the Isle of the Dead were like the clean sea air of Seriphos compared to the interior of that unholy structure.

As he neared the entrance of the cave they'd used to reach the temple, the rumblings behind him increased in volume. A loud lingering roar sounded behind him and he glanced back over his shoulder.

Marble dust thickened the sky as the temple roof collapsed. Great columns that had stood for unknown years toppled to the earth like felled trees. Then the walls tumbled inward with a last, echoing crash.

For several moments the dust-laden mist obscured everything. When it finally cleared, only the broad staircase remained, leading up to a pile of rubble. A dull red stain was spreading slowly over the ruin, and blood still seethed and bubbled somewhere inside.

Soon that liquid virulence too would be exhausted, and the lair of Medusa would be only a memory—one that Perseus would carry with him forever.

If he did not hurry though, forever would end sometime tomorrow night, on the coast of Joppa.

He turned and ran down the sandy slope of the tunnel.

The beach they'd landed on was deserted and unchanged. Fog still cloaked the shoreline and tiny wavelets broke on the sand with a muffled splash.

For a terrified moment Perseus felt the real world had deserted him, that it no longer existed. There was no shore across the lake/river, no land to reach. He would swim for days until his strength finally gave out. Then he would sink, only to rise again as Charon plucked him from the waters to convoy him once more back to the Isle of the Dead. There he would enter a different tunnel, one leading to the final, eternal place of rest far below the earth. He would never know the fate of his beloved.

Nonsense! He shook the groundless fear from his thoughts.

Refastening the sword to his belt, he took a firm grip on the tightly bound bundle (he could not bear to grip it in his teeth) and plunged into the tepid water, swimming hard for the reality he remembered.

His greatest worry now was that he would become disoriented in the mists and swim in circles. Even if he'd possessed another piece of silver, it wouldn't matter. Charon ferried passengers in only one direction.

As Perseus swam he tried not to think of what might inhabit the waters around him. Gradually he began to tire; it was a long swim, even for an experienced swimmer like himself. Finally, he was almost longing for the sight of the skeletal boatman and his cargo of dead souls when his hand unexpectedly encountered something hard.

Drawing back with a jerk, he almost let loose of the bundle clutched tightly in his other hand. Something long and curved leaned toward him through the water.

That's all then, he thought wildly. I'm finished. Medusa's dead body has come searching for its head.

Then the water and the fatigue cleared a little and he saw that it was only a thick root, gnarled but not scaly. He slumped in the water, hoping there would be no more surprises.

One hand grasped the familiar shape and he pulled himself under the arch of the great root. There were others to be negotiated, but they grew steadily smaller. His feet touched bottom. There was no describing the feeling of relief that went through him at that first muddy contact.

Soon he was again on dry land. He lay sprawled on naked rock, his eyes drinking in the sight of bullrushes and water weeds around him. Tantalus's shoulders could not have throbbed worse and his arms were lengths of chain hanging limply down.

He rested for a while, gathering strength. Then he rose and called briskly. No reply. Not even echoes could live on that shore.

Left or right, he mused. It seemed he must have drifted south, but no . . . he thought to check the water. The current did indeed push southward. Therefore he should go to his right.

He started off in that direction, still dripping wet since there was no sunshine to dry him, shivering from more than just cold.

There was no dramatic reunion when he finally stumbled back into the camp: Thallo and Philo were seated by a fire, wondering about the possibility of a storm, and Perseus simply stepped through the reeds into the clearing.

Thallo rose immediately and walked over to greet him. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Thallo looked past the exhausted Perseus, hesitated, finally looked back into the younger man's face.

Perseus shook his head slowly.

"All of them?" Philo looked up from beside the fire.

"Medusa." Perseus walked over to the old tree which overhung the clearing and searched through the supplies stacked there. Finding the length of rope he wanted, he used it to secure the damp bundle to a branch. It swung gently in the rising breeze. Then he returned and collapsed next to the fire, drying himself and gnawing on a piece of dried meat as he spoke.

"She won't kill any more good people," he said tightly. "Her temple's destroyed . . . I thought I'd never make shore . . . and the temple's guardian with it. A monster wolf-dog with two heads that we had to kill before we found her. It killed Menas."

"Dioskilos," murmured Thallo. "I've heard legends of such. And you slew it as well as the Gorgon?"

Perseus nodded. "Almost lost Castor to it as well." His voice dropped. "As it turned out, it didn't matter."

"Three good soldiers." Thallo turned back, looked out across the reeds. "Three good men."

"Good friends," added the disconsolate Philo. He nodded toward the bundle tied to the tree. "You gained what you came for?"

"Yes. It still bleeds. Don't touch it."

"No worry of that," said Philo fervently.

A rumble of thunder reached down from above and lightning made the fog glow like a lamp. Thallo put hands on hips and gazed skyward.

"Curse these mists. I cannot tell if it will rain or not."

"Zeus is angry," said Philo, "about something." He was setting up the small bronze pot in which they would cook their supper.

"Zeus is always angry about something." Thallo spat to one side and moved to check on the horses. They stood quietly nearby. "Prince, perhaps we should try to make some distance toward home before nightfall."

Perseus shook his head and tried to smile. "You would have to tie me to the horse, my friend. I have no more strength." Something whirred at him from the top of a rock bordering the nearby stream.

"Yes, my mechanical friend, I know that flesh is weak and metal strong, but I still wouldn't trade with you."

Bubo hooted once, eyes flashing, and settled back to study the landscape.

"You'll feel better after a night's sleep and some real food," Thallo assured the younger man. "If we leave before daybreak we can still make Joppa in the time left to us. Even Hercules had to rest from his labors."

"He couldn't have been more tired than I am." Perseus found a blanket and wrapped it around his still damp body. In minutes, he was sound asleep.

Philo stirred the contents of the bronze pot. "Should we wake him for supper?"

"Nay," Thallo said, studying the silent figure in the blanket. "He needs rest now more than food. Well feed him in the morning."

Thunder sometimes disturbed the peace of the night, but it didn't wake the men. By first light they still slept on, oblivious to Zeus's complaints. Bubo rested on his rock, ticking away somnolently.

The red bundle swayed gently in the wind. Nearby the water reeds rustled uncomfortably in the rising breeze. Or perhaps they moved because of the muscular figure that walked cautiously among them.

Calibos had seen Perseus's return to camp. He'd spent this night waiting patiently, as he had for several days. There had been no need to interfere. He was confident Medusa would finish his work for him.

Now it was clear she had not, and he would have to finish himself what the Gorgon ought to have done. His repeated entreaties to Mother Thetis had been met with silence as he'd followed the expedition out from Joppa.

When they'd separated back by the lair of the Stygian Witches, he'd been sorely tempted to kill the old man riding with the princess and carry her back to his lair. But that would only have angered Thetis, who had pronounced final judgment.