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.
In front of Hephaestus and to one side, lay a peculiar ellipsoidal body. Next to it sat a strigiformian skull. It seemed impossible that such minute mechanical components could be fashioned in so crude-looking a forge, but while the fingers of the smith were thick and gross, they functioned with godlike delicacy and skills.
The lame god hunched over his table filing and shaping a few last pieces of his latest project. When Athene had first proposed the idea to him, he'd been reluctant to take it on, being busy with a backlog of thunderbolts for the ever-demanding Zeus.
But he was intrigued by the challenge she had given him. The idea of thwarting Father Zeus's command without disobeying it was too tempting for the slightly mischievous Hephaestus to decline.
So he'd collaborated on the plans with Athene, taking pleasure in her company, and had worked with all his skill and speed to finish the task before anyone else might learn of the intended deception.
Soon they would learn how successful his work had been. As to the likeness of the subject he had no doubts. He was justly proud of his skill—the little mechanical owl would be a perfect metal reproduction of the ancient bird now perched on Athene's shoulder.
The goddess of wisdom turned away from the smith. She stroked the chest of the owl on her shoulder, running her fingers affectionately through the soft feathers.
"Hephaestus will do all he can, Bubo. Bronze and iron and strange new metals are no substitute for feathers, but he is very skilled and ingenious." Hephaestus looked up from his work momentarily and smiled at her, pleased by the compliment.
"Let great Zeus rage and thunder until even Olympus shakes, but I will never part with you, my beloved companion. And there is naught he can do, for I shall in truth be sending my 'wise companion, the owl Bubo' to the aid of Perseus, to give him advice and counsel. Only it shall not be the Bubo Father Zeus expects."
Content, the bird shifted slightly on her shoulder and issued a soft hoot of agreement.
IX
A less impressive owl mimicked the call of its immortal cousin on far distant Olympus with a querulous hooting. It was immediately drowned out by the blare of a trumpet.
A cluster of distraught and tired searchers met by the shore of a small lake. The moon watched them gather and said nothing. Artemis saw everything that happened during the night. Perceptive as that silent goddess was, however, and for all that she might be sympathetic to the poor humans who blundered about in the dark of her shadow, her lips would open wide only at a command from Father Zeus, who sometimes spoke to her from the vicinity of the constellation Ursa Major.
But this night the bear was quiet and still, and she would have to look on silently, without voicing her anxious feelings.
Philo dug at a thorn which had gotten stuck in his sandal. His companions gathered around him, their mounts puffing easily in the warm night air. Soon Perseus, Ammon, Andromeda, and the trumpeter were assembled alongside the water.
"We've searched the whole shoreline," Thallo told the others, patting the neck of his horse, "as well as several other ponds."
"No sign?"
"Nothing." Thallo turned and gestured back toward the water. "A few hoofprints down by the water's edge, but no tracks to follow."
"Of course not, you thick-witted swordsman," said a discouraged Ammon. "A horse that flies leaves no tracks to follow, unless one be a god, and we are not gods."
"You won't be a man much longer either, old mushmouth, if you don't watch your words." Thallo instinctively fingered the hilt of his sword.
"No quarreling here, among friends." Perseus urged his horse between them and favored each with a reproving glare. "We have no time for that, and even less now than we'd thought.
"We cannot wait here for Pegasus, whatever may have drawn him away. I'll set out to seek the Stygian Witches on my own, on a normal, earthbound horse."
"No," said Andromeda with conviction. "We will ride with you at least as far as the shrine which is supposed to be their home. It is a long and perilous journey and one man, however bold, stands little chance of success. There is too much at stake here to risk failure because of a sprained ankle or broken bone, Perseus, or because your mount might come up lame. A larger expedition will better serve us all."
"I agree that the journey is perilous," he told her. "Too perilous for a princess."
"I will be the judge of that." She smiled at him. "You are not yet my lord and master. Not yet! In the absence of the queen, it is I who command the household guard." She turned to the soldier holding the trumpet. "Herald!"
"Majesty?"
"Return to the city. Inform the queen of our failure to find the flying horse and that in consequence all of us will travel as escort for Prince Perseus."
The trumpeter backed his horse by way of salute, then turned and galloped for the city.
"His path is well marked. As for the rest of us,"—she gestured skyward—"we follow the north star. Hup!" She dug her heels into the flanks of her mount and rushed off northward, leaving a speechless Perseus waiting behind her.
His wits returned slowly. "Andromeda, no!" He whirled on Thallo. "Stop her!"
The officer struggled to keep a straight face, saying solemnly, "I am an officer of the royal household guards. I can take orders only from the queen, the princess, and my superior officers."
Perseus turned to his advisor. "Ammon!"
"Only one thing I can suggest, my boy. After all, she talked you into letting her come this far. Clever li
ttle dear, isn't she? Best follow her, before she gets too far ahead." And he whipped his own horse to a gallop, followed rapidly by Thallo and the other soldiers, and eventually by a bewildered Perseus.
Headstrong and foolish, he thought as he raced up alongside her. Yet I can only admire and love her for it. He watched as the princess, her gaze turned resolutely forward, appeared to flow over the landscape. She became one with her horse, and in the moonlight her veils trailed behind her like white flame.
I'm sorry for all this, Andromeda. I'm sorry Pegasus did not appear at the Wells of the Moon. I'm sorry for the danger that I've brought to you and your people. I'm sorry I've so confused your life.
She looked across at him and smiled behind her veil, and his last thought before setting his mind on the long ride to come was, Ah, but I'm not sorry I fell in love with you.
The moon watched the seven riders depart. So did the owls and the insects, the newts and frogs and toads.
One who was now a close cousin to the last of these slowly emerged from behind a thick tangle of roots. His tail swishing with nervous energy, he thoughtfully watched the little caravan start on its way. For the first time in a long while, Calibos was reasonably content with life.
The riders pressed their horses as hard as they drove themselves. Day by day the land grew progressively more barren. First the larger trees shrank and eventually vanished, the pines and the famed cedars. They conceded the land to brush and scattered palms. Soon even the bushes gave up the struggle for life and the last grasses faded into burnt brown shreds, or clung precariously to rain-holding crevices in the rocks.
In place of trees, the riders sought shade under the bare stone which thrust skyward in mockery of greener life. Water secreted itself in hard-to-find pools, and each morning the sun made itself known with increasing strength.
Phoenicia was a thin strip of life that backed onto a region fast changing from marginal farmland to naked desert. The core of long-dead trees hinted at what the land had once supported, and offered a warning about what could happen elsewhere if men of richer lands were careless with their soil.
Perseus wiped the sweat from his brow and galloped on ahead of his companions. The movements of his horse were listless and he increased his speed without enthusiasm. Here animals suffered as deeply as men.
Topping the little rise he'd espied, Perseus stared at the empty landscape revealed on the other side. Its colors were raw, its topography hellish: a dry hell that reminded the rider of almonds he'd seen spread out on blankets to dry in the sun. Everything here was like that: brown and yellow. Nowhere could he see a place where even a witch might survive.
The others rode up alongside.
"What do you see, my boy?" Ammon shaded his eyes, squinting hard at the harsh terrain. "Curse these old eyes. I see nothing."
"Then you still see clearly, old friend. There is nothing. Nothing but more wilderness."
"No sign of the shrine?"
Perseus allowed himself a dry, tired laugh. "Shrine indeed! A shrine to the dead, maybe. This land is unfit even for eaters of carrion." He gestured toward the distant, wavering horizon.
"Everywhere you look it is the same. We could be lost forever in such desolation."
Andromeda nudged her horse. She'd been gazing not at the forbidding land ahead, but at the startlingly blue sky. Something above held her attention. She studied it just long enough to make certain it wasn't something her brain had conjured out of the heat.
"Look. Up toward those far cliffs."
Perseus and the others turned. One by one, they too noticed the object which had caught the princess's attention.
Now it was in line just above and to the right of a tall dead tree—a sudden, winking streak of light against the otherwise uninterrupted blueness.
The horses offered their own form of confirmation. They were waking from the stupor engendered by the midday heat. Their now alert eyes lifted and they began to shift nervously in place.
Perseus dismounted and worked to calm his own mount. So did Thallo, who suddenly pointed to his left. "There! There it is again."
"It's flying straight for us."
"Perhaps Pegasus has managed to follow us, sir," suggested the ever-hopeful Solon.
"I think not." Perseus squinted into the light, but could not identify the approaching mystery. "The stallion was never so bright, not even on a cloudless day such as this. No, it's something else."
"One of Calibos's evil creatures?" Thallo suggested, and instantly regretted the remark because of the expression it brought forth from the princess.
"Well, it won't find us cowering under the rocks." Philo dismounted quickly, as did the other soldiers. Swords were drawn and readied.
"Whatever it is, it can't be very big." Thallo shielded his eyes. "A hawk?"
As the apparition was moving quite near now, no one responded to Thallo. The thing was generating a most peculiar sound, like wingbeats, but oddly stiff. There was also a slight hum from it, a cross between a whirr and a rattling, that none could identify.
"No hawk I ever saw," said Ammon tensely. "Do you think it's going to attack?" He took a step closer to his horse, who continued to stir uneasily as the object approached. Nearing the dead tree, it began to slow, and as the sunlight faded from its surface, its outline grew visible. The eyes of the watchers widened as they identified the shape, but everyone was too fascinated to speak. They simply stood and stared, their weapons held loose and half-forgotten at their sides.
As it closed on the tree, the shining owl-shape began to brake sharply. That it was an owl could not be doubted, but it was unlike any other owl that had ever been.
In place of feathers it boasted rectangular metal plates, overlapping and highly polished. Tubular legs ended in metal talons, and the great rounded eyes flashed and spun with energy derived from a nonbiologic source. They gleamed bright red, like tiny windows in the night.
It clanked perceptibly as it approached the tree and let out a loud "Hoo! Hoo!" of warning. The sound was cousin to a normal owl call, but throatier and decidedly metallic. It spooked the horses, and Thallo and his friends were hard put to control them.
"By all the gods!" Ammon finally muttered, breaking the mesmerized silence. "That I should live to witness such a wonder!"
"An owl. A golden owl of metal that lives." Perseus started toward the tree, his initial fearfulness overcome by his curiosity.
The manifestation hovered, lowered its talons, and carefully gripped a branch. For a moment it swayed precariously on its newly won perch, then held steady. It let out a brazen hoot of triumph, at which point the rotten wood cracked, dropping the unprepared bird onto the sandy soil below. It lay there, clicking and whirring peevishly.
Perseus was the first to reach it. He bent, ignoring those sharp metal talons, and set the creature upright. Bright red eyes turned on him and the owl clicked away merrily, its attention now wholly on its rescuer.
The others slowed. Only Ammon and Andromeda moved to stand next to Perseus. The soldiers remained slightly behind, superstition temporarily reining in their natural curiosity. They watched warily as Perseus and the princess studied the creature, and in the manner of soldiers offered silent invocations to their personal deities.
"Too heavy for that old, dead branch," Perseus explained to his companions as he examined the broken tree limb.
Ammon's gaze narrowed as he stared at the youth. "Now, how do you know that?"
"He told me so."
"Told you?" Andromeda's gaze shifted from her betrothed back down to the bird.
It continued to wheeze away enthusiastically, clicking and whistling gleefully.
Perseus nodded. "He says his name is Bubo."
"You got that name out of all those clicks and buzzes?" Ammon looked doubtful.
"What clicks and buzzes?" Perseus frowned, looking puzzled. "His speech is perfectly clear to me."
"And what is perfectly clear to me," Ammon replied with assurance, "is that this magic
al creature is another gift to you from the gods, like the sword and helmet and the shield." He sounded relieved as he spoke to the other attentive members of the parched group.
"This does not by any means insure the success of our expedition, but to know that at least someone among the immortals favors our young friend here must be regarded as an encouraging sign."
"Perhaps," said Solon, not so ready to concede the old poet's point. "But we know for a fact that we are opposed by the goddess Thetis."
"We are far from the ocean here," argued Philo, "and far from her reach."
Menas made a sign and gazed skyward. "One is never far from the reach of the gods."
"Nevertheless, you must all agree that this is a good sign." Ammon stroked his beard and looked speculatively at the owl. "The question before us now is, can it possibly be more than just a sign?"
"It is." Perseus watched fondly as the creature hopped up and down experimentally. Its head turned a complete circle and the red eyes came to rest on him. "As you have surmised, it is here to help us, good Ammon."
Thallo sounded doubtful. "A thing of metal and wheels—a child's toy. What can it possibly do for us?"
This produced a distinctly irritated sputter from the object of their discussion.
"For a start," Perseus translated for them, "he says he can lead us to the shrine."
The suspicious old soldier nodded approvingly. "If it can do that, then it is indeed more than a child's toy."
An outraged whistle came from the owl. It hummed with more patience at Perseus. Obediently the youth picked it up, staring in wonder as it spread metal wings. They creaked slightly.
Then the wings became a blur, there was a louder humming, and the marvelous manifestation shot skyward with a speed no flier of flesh and bone could have matched.
At a modest altitude the owl leveled off and commenced flying northeastward. It returned, circled above them, and repeated the pattern.
Clash of the Titans Page 13
