The Battle of the Labyrinth (14 page)

The old man’s eyes shone. It was obvious he loved his son more than anything in the world. “Now I will do your wings, and give mine a chance to set properly. Come!”

It was slow going. The old man’s hands fumbled with the straps. He had a hard time keeping the wings in position while he sealed them. His own metal wings seemed to weigh him down, getting in his way while he tried to work.

“Too slow,” the old man muttered. “I am too slow.”

“Take your time, Father,” the boy said. “The guards aren’t due until—”

BOOM!

The workshop doors shuddered. Daedalus had barred them from the inside with a wooden brace, but still they shook on their hinges.

“Hurry!” Icarus said.

BOOM! BOOM!

Something heavy was slamming into the doors. The brace held, but a crack appeared in the left door.

Daedalus worked furiously. A drop of hot wax spilled onto Icarus’s shoulder. The boy winced but did not cry out. When his left wing was sealed into the straps, Daedalus began working on the right.

“We must have more time,” Daedalus murmured. “They are too early! We need more time for the seal to hold.”

“It’ll be fine,” Icarus said, as his father finished the right wing. “Help me with the manhole—”

CRASH!
The doors splintered and the head of a bronze battering ram emerged through the breach. Axes cleared the debris, and two armed guards entered the room, followed by the king with the golden crown and the spearshaped beard.

“Well, well,” the king said with a cruel smile. “Going somewhere?”

Daedalus and his son froze, their metal wings glimmering on their backs.

“We’re leaving, Minos,” the old man said.

King Minos chuckled. “I was curious to see how far you’d get on this little project before I dashed your hopes. I must say I’m impressed.”

The king admired their wings. “You look like metal chickens,” he decided.

“Perhaps we should pluck you and make a soup.”

The guards laughed stupidly.

“Metal chickens,” one repeated. “Soup.”

“Shut up,” the king said. Then he turned again to Daedalus. “You let my daughter escape, old man. You drove my wife to madness. You killed my monster and made me the laughingstock of the Mediterranean. You will never escape me!”

Icarus grabbed the wax gun and sprayed it at the king, who stepped back in surprise. The guards rushed forward, but each got a stream of hot wax in his face.

“The vent!” Icarus yelled to his father.

“Get them!” King Minos raged.

Together, the old man and his son pried open the manhole cover, and a column of hot air blasted out of the ground. The king watched, incredulous, as the inventor and son shot into the sky on their bronze wings, carried by the updraft.

“Shoot them!” the king yelled, but his guards had brought no bows. One threw his sword in desperation, but Daedalus and Icarus were already out of reach. They wheeled above the maze and the king’s palace, then zoomed across the city of Knossos and out past the rocky shores of Crete. Icarus laughed. “Free, Father! You did it.”

The boy spread his wings to their full limit and soared away on the wind.

“Wait!” Daedalus called. “Be careful!”

But Icarus was already out over the open sea, heading north and delighting in their good luck. He soared up and scared an eagle out of its flight path, then plummeted toward the sea like he was born to fly, pulling out of a nosedive at the last second. His sandals skimmed the waves.

“Stop that!” Daedalus called. But the wind carried his voice away. His son was drunk on his own freedom.

The old man struggled to catch up, gliding clumsily after his son. They were miles from Crete, over deep sea, when Icarus looked back and saw his father’s worried expression.

Icarus smiled. “Don’t worry, Father! You’re a genius! I trust your handiwork—”

The first metal feather shook loose from his wings and fluttered away. Then another. Icarus wabbled in midair. Suddenly he was shedding bronze feathers, which twirled away from him like a flock of frightened birds.

“Icarus!” his father cried. “Glide! Extend the wings. Stay as still as possible!”

But Icarus flapped his arms, desperately trying to reassert control. The left wing went first—ripping away from the straps.

“Father!” Icarus cried. And then he fell, the wings stripped away until he was just a boy in a climbing harness and a white tunic, his arms extended in a useless attempt to glide.

I woke with a start, feeling like I was falling. The corridor was dark. In the constant moaning of the Labyrinth, I thought I could hear the anguished cry of Daedalus calling his son’s name, as Icarus, his only joy, plummeted toward the sea, three hundred feet below.

* * *

There was no morning in the maze, but once everyone woke up and had a fabulous breakfast of granola bars and juice boxes, we kept traveling. I didn’t mention my dream. Something about it had really freaked me out, and I didn’t think the others needed to know that.

The old stone tunnels changed to dirt with cedar beams, like a gold mine or something. Annabeth started getting agitated.

“This isn’t right,” she said. “It should still be stone.”

We came to a cave where stalactites hung low from the ceiling. In the center of the dirt floor was a rectangular pit, like a grave. Grover shivered. “It smells like the Underworld in here.”

Then I saw something glinting at the edge of the pit—a foil wrapper. I shined my flashlight into the hole and saw a half-chewed cheeseburger floating in brown carbonated muck.

“Nico,” I said. “He was summoning the dead again.”

Tyson whimpered. “Ghosts were here. I don’t like ghosts.”

“We’ve got to find him.” I don’t know why, but standing at the edge of that pit gave me a sense of urgency. Nico was close, I could feel it. I couldn’t let him wander around down here, alone except for the dead. I started to run.

“Percy!” Annabeth called.

I ducked into a tunnel and saw light up ahead. By the time Annabeth, Tyson, and Grover caught up with me, I was staring at daylight streaming through a set of bars above my head. We were under a steel grate made out of metal pipes. I could see trees and blue sky.

“Where are we?” I wondered.

Then a shadow fell across the grate and a cow stared down at me. It looked like a normal cow except with was a weird color—bright red, like a cherry. I didn’t know cows came in that color.

The cow mooed, put one hoof tentatively on the bars, then backed away.

“It’s a cattle guard,” Grover said.

“A what?” I asked.

“They put them at the gates of ranches so cows can’t get out. They can’t walk on them.”

“How do you know that?”

Grover huffed indignantly. “Believe me, if
you
had hooves, you’d know about cattle guards. They’re annoying!”

I turned to Annabeth. “Didn’t Hera say something about a ranch? We need to check it out. Nico might be there.”

She hesitated. “All right. But how do we get out?”

Tyson solved that problem by hitting the cattle guard with both hands. It popped off and went flying out of sight. We heard a
CLANG!
and a startled
Moo!
Tyson blushed.

“Sorry, cow!” he called.

Then he gave us a boost out of the tunnel.

We were on a ranch, all right. Rolling hills stretched to the horizon, dotted with oak trees and cactuses and boulders. A barbed wire fence ran from the gate in either direction. Cherry-colored cows roamed around, grazing on clumps of grass.

“Red cattle,” Annabeth said. “The cattle of the sun.”

“What?” I asked.

“They’re sacred to Apollo.”

“Holy cows?”

“Exactly. But what are they doing—”

“Wait,” Grover said. “Listen.”

At first everything seemed quiet…but then I heard it: the distant baying of dogs. The sound got louder. Then the underbrush rustled, and two dogs broke through. Except it wasn’t two dogs. It was
one
dog with two heads. It looked like a greyhound, long and snaky and sleek brown, but its neck V’d into two heads, both of them snapping and snarling and generally not very glad to see us.

“Bad Janus dog!” Tyson cried.

“Arf!”
Grover told it, and raised a hand in greeting. The two-headed dog bared its teeth. I guess it wasn’t impressed that Grover could speak animal. Then its master lumbered out of the woods, and I realized the dog was the least of our problems.

He was a huge guy with stark white hair, a straw cowboy hat, and a braided white beard— kind of like Father Time, if Father Time went redneck and got totally jacked. He was wearing jeans, a DON’T MESS WITH

TEXAS T-shirt, and a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off so you could see his muscles. On his right bicep was a crossed-swords tattoo. He held a wooden club about the size of a nuclear warhead, with six-inch spikes bristling at the business end.

“Heel, Orthus,” he told the dog.

The dog growled at us once more, just to make his feelings clear, just to make his feelings clear, then circled back to his master’s feet. The man looked us up and down, keeping his club ready.

“What’ve we got here?” he asked. “Cattle rustlers?”

“Just travelers,” Annabeth said. “We’re on a quest.”

The man’s eye twitched. “Half-bloods, eh?”

I started to say, “How did you know—”

Annabeth put her hand on my arm. “I’m Annabeth, daughter of Athena. This is Percy, son of Poseidon. Grover the satyr. Tyson the—”

“Cyclops,” the man finished. “Yes, I can see that.” He glowered at me.

“And I know half-bloods because I
am
one, sonny. I’m Eurytion, the cowherd for this here ranch. Son of Ares. You came through the Labyrinth like the other one, I reckon.”

“The other one?” I asked. “You mean Nico di Angelo?”

“We get a load of visitors from the Labyrinth,” Eurytion said darkly. “Not many ever leave.”

“Wow,” I said. “I feel welcome.”

The cowherd glanced bend him like someone was watching. Then he lowered his voice. “I’m only going to say this once, demigods. Get back in the maze now. Before it’s too late.”

“We’re not leaving,” Annabeth insisted. “Not until we see this other demigod. Please.”

Eurytion grunted. “Then you leave me no choice, missy. I’ve got to take you to the boss.”

* * *

I didn’t’ feel like we were hostages or anything. Eurytion walked alongside us with his club across his shoulder. Orthus the two-headed dog growled a lot and sniffed at Grover’s legs and shot into the bushes once in a while to chase animals, but Eurytion kept him more or less under control. We walked down a dirt path that seemed to go on forever. It must’ve been close to a hundred degrees, which was a shock after San Francisco. Heat shimmered off the ground. Insects buzzed in the trees. Before we’d gone very far, i was sweating like crazy. Flies swarmed us. Every so often we’d see a pen full of red cows or even stranger animals. Once we passed a corral where the fence was coated in asbestos. Inside, a herd of fire-breathing horses milled around. The hay in their feeding trough was on fire. The ground smoked around their feet, but the horses seemed tame enough. One big stallion looked at me and whinnied, columns of red flame billowing out his nostrils. I wondered if it hurt his sinuses.

“What are
they
for?” I asked.

Eurytion scowled. “We raise animals for lots of clients. Apollo, Diomedes, and…others.”

“Like who?”

“No more questions.”

Finally we came out of the woods. Perched on a hill above us was a big ranch house—all white stone and wood and big windows.

“It looks like a Frank Lloyd Wright!” Annabeth said.

I guess she was talking about some architectural thing. To me it just looked like the kind of place where a few demigods could get into serious trouble. We hiked up the hill.

“Don’t break the rules,” Eurytion warned as we walked up the steps to the front porch. “No fighting. No drawing weapons. And don’t make any comments about the boss’s appearance.”

“Why?” I asked. “What does he look like?”

Before Eurytion could reply, a new voice said, “Welcome to the Triple G

Ranch.”

The man on the porch had a normal head, which was a relief. His face was weathered and brown from years in the sun. He had a slick black hair and a black pencil moustache like villains have in old movies. He smiled at us, but the smile wasn’t friendly; more amused, like
Oh boy, more people to torture!

I didn’t ponder that very long, though, because then I noticed his body…or bodies. He had three of them. Now you’d think I would’ve gotten used to weird anatomy after Janus and Briares, but this guy was three complete people. His neck connected to the middle chest like normal, but he had two more chests, one to either side, connected at the shoulders, with a few inches between. His left arm grew out of his left chest, and the same on the right, so he had two arms, but four armpits, if that makes any sense. The chests all connected into one enormous torso, with two regular but very beefy legs, and he wore the most oversized pair of Levis I’d ever seen. His chests each wore a different color Western shirt—green, yellow, red, like a stoplight. I wondered how he dressed the middle chest, since it had no arms. The cowherd Eurytion nudged me. “Say Hello to Mr. Geryon.”

“Hi,” I said. “Nice chests—uh, ranch! Nice ranch you have.”

Before the three-bodied man could respond, Nico di Angelo came out of the glass doors onto the porch. “Geryon, I won’t wait for—”