Clash of the Titans (24 page)

In his thirst for revenge he'd inadvertently goaded the goddess into demanding the death of the one love he could not command. Now that the princess's death was ordered, all he could do was insure that her lover did not survive her.

Perseus lay huddled by the ashes of the dying fire. Somehow the cursed man-child had fooled the old witches into helping him and had slain Medusa.

Well, he would not find Calibos so easy an opponent, and he would pay him back now for the loss of his hand.

Moving as quietly as possible, Calibos made his way behind the tree holding the scarlet bundle. Once, the braided whip coiled over his shoulder caught on a projecting branch and he almost cursed aloud before freeing it.

As he leaned around the trunk of the tree, he used the trident fastened to the stump of his left forearm to brace himself. It was a poor substitute for a hand, but the best he could contrive.

With a sharp knife he cut a small gash across the bottom of the bundle. The stink that wafted from within assured him that the Gorgon's head had not yet dried out completely.

No amount of kicks or blows of the whip had been able to compel his swamp servants to make the long march with him. Under no circumstances would they journey beyond the marshlands. He could not hope to defeat three experienced warriors, however, without assistance.

He permitted himself a slight smile. Perseus was brave and lucky, but he lacked knowledge. Calibos knew all the legends, all the details of the great mysteries. How ironic that the ignorant Perseus should thus provide Calibos with the means of his destruction.

Yes, there was still a little blood left in the severed head. A few drops fell from the slit fabric to the ground while thunder railed impotently above.

The mitigating atmosphere of the Isle of the Dead was not present here on the soil of the real world. If the legends were correct . . . yes, the earth where the blood had dripped was beginning to seethe.

Soon the suppurating soil coaxed forth all manner of wriggling vileness: blood-engorged leeches, swollen maggots, worms with black skin, and tiny agitated scorpions. Of them all, only the fiercest and most lethal would survive to draw on the power of Medusa's blood.

Backing away, he hid himself behind the tree.

Quickly, the worms returned to the earth. The leeches melted and the maggots became food for those who remained. Three scorpions began to grow.

Calibos watched with interest and delight. Another few minutes and it would be too late for the sleeping travelers. He shifted to the other side of the tree in order to have a better view of the end, and thereby stepped on one of the few dry dead twigs in that fog-shrouded land. It cracked like pottery.

It was a modest noise, most likely lost in the rush of wind and occasional lightning. But it was heard by one whose ears were far more sensitive than those of men.

Bubo was suddenly alert. His head clicked around to focus on the three arachnids. His eyes spun and flashed as he generated a hoot of alarming dimensions, a mighty clanging the likes of which are not heard outside the metal foundries of Luxor.

Thallo and Philo came awake instantly and reached for their swords. Perseus was only seconds behind them.

"Damn you, you unnatural meddler of metal!" Calibos stepped out from behind the tree and uncoiled his whip. Bubo continued to rail away. "You won't interfere again!"

The whip shot out and snapped violently against the figure clinging to the rock. Bubo was spun off his perch, wings flapping furiously but tardily. Still sounding his alarm, he landed in the stream. His raucous ringing blended into the sound of rising bubbles as he sank.

"Nothing will save you this time, Calibos," said Perseus, fully awake now. "Not the vermin who serve you, not your immortal half-mother: nothing."

"It's not I who need saving, bastard. Or have you not looked to your prize?"

The three men turned, and froze. The three scorpions were now the size of ponies. They ignored the half concealed Calibos and advanced toward the larger cluster of food. The food drew together and readied for the attack.

"Watch the tails," muttered Thallo, keeping his eyes on the advancing creatures. "They'll hold enough poison to kill instantly."

"Poison be damned," said Philo. "Those stingers are as big as swords."

"Easy, easy," Perseus urged his friends, his own sword waiting. "Try to separate them, take them one per man. That way they can't surprise us from behind."

One scorpion was slightly closer than the others. It snatched at Perseus with a huge claw. He stepped nimbly aside, fended off a strike of that looming tail, and swung his sword. It cut a piece of chiton from one claw and the scorpion jerked back in pain.

"Now," he yelled, "split them up!"

Swinging their swords like scythes, Thallo and Philo joined Perseus in the charge. The three scorpions were forced apart, leaving each man with only one opponent to worry about.

"I'd enjoy watching," Calibos called pleasantly, "but I've other work to do. Do me the pleasure of waiting for my return." He turned away and limped off through the reeds.

Thallo could hear the sound of the whip cracking behind them. "The horses!" he yelled. "He's driving off the horses!" He ducked and weaved just in time to avoid another strike from a deadly tail.

There was nothing they could do about their mounts. The monsters continued to press in. Though the three men held them off, none could gain an advantage.

Enough time wasted on this, thought Calibos finally. I will alter the odds.

He stepped into the clearing and selected a target. The whip spun, became a noose around Philo's neck. Putting his weight into it, Calibos yanked hard. Philo went backwards to the ground.

Immediately the scorpion he'd been battling rushed in. The tail hooked and went clear through Philo's body. He screamed and tried to twist free as Calibos methodically drew back his whip.

Perseus saw what had happened and deliberately stepped close to his own attacker. As the expected pincer reached for him, he cut down. The limb dropped to the earth as the tail descended. That too was severed. Before the monster could back away, Perseus rammed his sword through its head. It buckled like a broken cart.

Meanwhile Thallo had dealt with equal success with his own enemy, gradually cutting off bits and pieces of it until it had little left to fight with. He drove home the final blow as something dark and thin tightened around his neck and pulled him backward.

"Thallo!" Perseus rushed toward him, but found himself intercepted by the scorpion which had killed Philo. Desperately he hacked at it as he watched Thallo being pulled inexorably toward the reeds.

The old soldier was strong, but the whip choked away his breath. He continued stumbling, his hands trying to pull away the whip, until he impaled himself on the three-pronged weapon which occupied the stump of Calibos's left arm. His eyes widened.

Calibos withdrew the trident and let Thallo's body slump to the ground. His gaze lifted to Perseus cutting apart the last of Medusa's seed.

He started toward him. It was nearly finished, he mused happily. Let Thetis pronounce her curse; he would fashion his own revenge. He had the trident and the whip. He would make this last death a lingering one.

One more thrust finished the scorpion. Perseus pulled the sword clear just in time to ready himself for a more conventional attacker. As he turned the whip snaked around his sword arm and pulled.

Perseus went down and the sword fell from his grasp. He managed to fight free of the whip, reached for the sword, but something bit into his neck and he went over backwards, twisting in pain.

"Come on, boy. I've only one hand to fight you with, as well you should recall. Surely you can defeat a tired, ugly, one-handed man. Or even a one-handed beast such as myself." When Perseus did not move, Calibos's tone grew threatening.

"Come, get up. There's only you left and no one to help you. There's your sword, so close." He cracked the whip at it, sent it skittering across the ground. "Why don't you pick it up? Then you can cut off my other hand and win yourself another bride with it—your first is doomed."

Perseus clenched his teeth and ignored the taunts. His only concern now was how to regain control of his sword. But every time he tried to rise or move toward it, a hot, searing agony shot through his body and sent him to the ground.

"Get up, Perseus," Calibos chided him, setting the whip again. "It's only a little whip. Horses take it better than you—even hogs. Don't let it keep you down in the slime with the worms, lest you think you belong there."

Though he tried his best to ignore the pain, Perseus could get no closer than a couple of feet to the sword. Whenever he drew near, the whip would wrap around his ankle or leg and drag him back through the mud.

He rested a moment there, allowing Calibos to tease him. Then he made as if to rise again and reach for the sword. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the whip arm move and tensed in expectation of its strike. As expected, it snapped around his right ankle.

The fire shot through him once more, but as the whip was receding he lunged for it. Before Calibos could pull it clear, Perseus had it wrapped around his arm. Now he dug his feet into the earth and started pulling toward the sword.

Calibos leaned back, trying to keep Perseus away from the sword while regaining control of the whip. The youth's legs were knotted with muscle, so that despite the other's greater weight, Perseus was dragging him inch by inch toward the blade.

With a frustrated cry of blind rage, Calibos let the whip handle go and charged. The trident hand was raised high to strike the final blow.

But the sudden release of tension sent Perseus tumbling . . . straight toward the sword. He knew he could not hope to fend off the fresher, heavier Calibos while lying on the ground, and his arm trembled with the strain as he turned onto his back and heaved the weapon with both hands.

Calibos stopped about four feet away from Perseus. He stood there, staring down at the panting, whip-scarred youth. Slowly the trident hand came down as both hands clutched at his middle: the hilt of the sword pressed tight against his skin; the point and several inches of blade emerged from his naked back.

He turned away from the prone form of Perseus, bumped up against the tree, staggered several steps to one side, and then keeled over. He made no noise when he struck the ground, and he did not move again.

Perseus lay breathing hard, unable to move. Eventually he rolled over, got to his knees, then his feet. This exhausted him all over again and he nearly fell. His tunic was in rags. Blood streaked his exposed flesh, marking the places where the whip had cut deep.

His first thought was for his companions. He'd seen the scorpion's tail pierce and kill Philo. Old Thallo was dead also, lying on his back staring blankly at the sky, his expression a mixture of surprise and outrage. After decades on the battlefield, he'd finally been felled by a cowardly blow from behind.

Perseus limped to his side, kneeling with an effort that made him dizzy. On the second try he was able to close those staring eyes.

"Sleep well, old friend." His voice shook. "A truer friend no man ever had."

He stood, but there was no strength in his limbs. He crossed to the tree and took down the cloaked head of Medusa. The slit in the bottom was dry now. There was no more blood in the head to work further mischief with the innocent earth.

Turning, he started across the stream. One foot caught and sent him tumbling into the shallow water. Joppa . . . have to return to Joppa, he thought desperately. Horse or no horse.

He let himself drift across the gentle stream, crawled out on the far sandy bank. He still held the bundled head of the Gorgon.

It was as far as he could go, and not nearly far enough to save the princess.

The fog had lifted a little and the sun penetrated enough to warm the sand, the newts and lizards that foraged by the water's edge, and the body that slept with its feet still trailing in the stream.

Perseus's eyes opened slowly. He didn't know how long he'd lain there asleep on the bank, but a strange sound had brought him out of his lethargy.

There it came again, grinding and yet somehow kind to the ear.

His head lifted and he looked down at the water.

A line of small bubbles was moving steadily toward the bank. A silvery reflection appeared on the surface, emerged as a feathery dome.

The owl moved stiffly until it was standing next to the youth. Shaking metal wings he sent water flying into Perseus's face. The cool droplets helped to revive him.

Bubo gave forth several waterlogged hoots and clicks while Perseus listened intently, delighted to see his little friend once more.

"Hello again, my damp counselor. Yes, we've both spent better nights." He winced as he rubbed his cramped legs. "I can understand your confusion. I don't see too well underwater myself. I thought we'd lost you for good." Bubo responded with a succession of agitated clicks.

Perseus managed a smile. "You shouldn't apologize for walking in circles all night. Owls are supposed to have good sense of direction, but not underwater. The important thing is that you finally found your way out. But I'm afraid all may be lost." He gestured to the other side of the stream, toward the reeds and rushes that masked the carnage of the previous night.

"Calibos will trouble us no longer, but I fear he'll have his revenge anyway. He drove off our horses. They must be halfway to Joppa by now, if not slain by some beast. It doesn't matter. I haven't the time to try to hunt them down.

"Thallo and Philo are dead." He paused, his throat dry, then looked across at the little owl. "That means it's you and me, my little friend." Bubo hooted softly, sounding as hopeful as metal could.

"Calibos is dead too, but I'd rather fight him than Father Time. If you can still fly, and if he still lives, you must try to find and bring back Pegasus. He's our only hope now."

Querulous hootings.

"I don't know where he is. He didn't meet us at the Wells of the Moon. I can't believe he turned completely wild again.