Clash of the Titans

by Alan Dean Foster

  "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.

  XIII

  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.

  "Try to the north and east of the Wells, and in the marsh where Calibos was lord. He knew enough to follow us this far. Maybe he also knew enough to interfere with Pegasus. Fly to him wherever he is, little shadow of the night, and bring him to me, else I'll stay here to die. At least my journey to the underworld will be a short one, and fate may place Andromeda and me in the same boat."

  Bubo let out a shrill whistle. He flapped his wings experimentally, turned and tried to take off. Water squirted from sockets and joints, but that slowed him only temporarily. More than mere muscles gave him the power of flight.

  He started down the stream bank, flapping furiously and hopping along on little pistoning legs. He bounced once, twice, and it seemed for a moment that he would end up ingloriously in the water again. There was no third bounce.

  He skimmed low over the stream, avoided a snapping fish, and gained altitude. High overhead, he circled once and dipped his wings in farewell.

  Perseus waved, then watched the brilliant spot of light until it vanished southward. At that point he lay down on his back on the warm sand and allowed himself to lapse into a second sleep.

  Once the skull had been that of a beautiful mare. Now it served only to support the torch which threw uneven light across the interior of the cavern.

  The marsh throne was empty, awaiting the return of a lord who would never sit on it again. Calibos's principal servitor, the gaunt huntsman, stood lazily by a large wooden cage. He was rebinding the head of his spear. Inside the cage Pegasus paced nervously.

  The vulture which perched close by was partly the cause of the stallion's anxiety. The lumbering carrion-eater was quiescent now, looming motionlessly over cage and huntsman like a section of sculpted rock. The great hooked beak was red with the blood of fresh death.

  The huntsman frowned as he worked on his spear. Lord Calibos had been gone unexpectedly long from the marsh. The huntsman hoped he returned within the fortnight. If not, then the huntsman was charged with slaying the wonderful flying horse, a task he did not relish.

  He tied a last knot and walked toward the throne. The spearpoint needed some final sharpening.

  He was setting it against the whetstone balanced there when an alien sound caused him to glance up. The vast red eyes of the vulture opened abruptly, and in
the cage Pegasus pricked up his ears.

  Nothing was visible outside the cavern entrance save the mists. With a grunt, the huntsman returned to his work.

  Something small and unnaturally fast came whizzing into the cave. It circled once round the roof of the cavern as the astonished huntsman looked on. The vulture shifted nervously on its perch.

  The metal apparition suddenly changed course. In the enclosed air of the cave it sounded like a gigantic wasp. Talons spread, it dove straight for the huntsman.

  That poor worthy threw up his hands to shield his face and let out a startled cry. Bubo passed just above him, rustling his hair. It was enough. Waving his hands protectively above his head, the creature forgot Calibos and his orders and fled from the lair.

  Calibos's remaining servant was larger but as easily startled. Bubo turned in midair and rushed heedlessly at the huge vulture.

  Without intelligent direction the enormous bird was helpless. It yelped and hopped down from its perch. The beak snapped ponderously at the tiny clicking, whistling shape which was tormenting it. The massive beak could have turned Bubo to scrap, but it never came close.

  Pursued by a hooting, wheezing nightmare that had no scent, the vulture flapped its wings and began retreating. One wing knocked over several of the torches. The lair was carpeted with rotting vegetation and dry organic matter. In a matter of minutes it was filling with flame. Pegasus kicked at the bars of the cage, his eyes rolling wildly at the fire.

  With a last measured peck Bubo forced the vulture from the cave. Behind him sounded the neighs of the frantic stallion as the flames licked steadily closer to its cage.

  Bubo turned. It took him only seconds to solve the problem. Using his beak, he pulled on the rope trip which held the counterweight. The weight dropped and the door shot upward. Pegasus immediately dashed out into the cave, followed closely by Bubo.

  They were on their way out into the open when the marsh gas which filled the lair suddenly ignited in an explosion that rattled the whole mountain.

  In contrast to the violent eruptions that shook the marshlands, distant Joppa was silent as a tomb. The marketplaces were quiet, devoid of their usual frenetic activity. No captains filled the air above the docks with angry curses and cries, no slaves unloaded cotton from Aegypt or marble from Greece. All of Joppa was deep in mourning for a death which had not yet occurred.

  In the palace Cassiopeia stared in frozen silence as her only child emerged from the sanctified pool in which she'd been given a final cleansing. This horrible parody of the marriage eve was forced on her by the conditions of Thetis's curse. Half a dozen ladies-in-waiting commenced to dress the princess.

  How pale she is, Cassiopeia thought. Much paler than normal. As I no doubt am. But I must try not to let it show. The people back me, look to me to save them. I cannot let them down.

  I will not let Andromeda down. See how bravely she bears up under the terrible strain. It would not do for her own mother to break down while she maintains such dignity and calm. Characteristics she takes from me, along with her physical beauty and quick mind. Characteristics she will never be able to enjoy or use in the service of her people. Characteristics doomed to uselessness by the capricious whim of an outraged goddess.

  Thetis, she cried silently, why could you not punish me instead? But she knew the goddess was doing precisely that.

  There was nothing to do but finish it.

  A solemn crowd had assembled in the square outside the palace. Today there was no division between soldier and priest, merchant and citizen. All were joined together in common despair.

  Their feelings were augmented by the slow, steady beat of the drummers flanking the palace entrance. There was very little conversation. All knew what had to take place today; all knew that Andromeda was to sacrifice herself to save the city. Dozens of women had volunteered to take the princess's place—futile gestures, for Thetis's demand had been specific. But it made Cassiopeia feel better.

  A little.

  She dropped the veil and by herself placed the farewell coronet of flowers on her daughter's head. Mother and daughter gazed into each other's eyes. They shared the same lineage, the same blood, and each knew her place and obligations.

  No tears clouded Andromeda's eyes. For now, at least, she held back the fear. If Perseus had not come, it meant he had failed. If he had failed, then he must be dead. And if he was dead, she had no desire to live.

  The procession left the palace. There was none of the usual cheering when the royal party appeared, only a murmur of sympathy from the crowd. Soldiers were not needed to make a path, the crowd parted silently.

  Ammon joined the procession there, silently doing his best to comfort the queen. They made their way down the palace steps. Citizens leaned silently from windows and trees to watch the procession pass, and threw garlands of olive and laurel leaves in its path. Only the soft lament of the drums broke the quiet.

  Even the city gates seemed unnaturally muffled when they were swung open. Soldiers and priests led the column out of the city, turning south along a well-worn wagon track.

  The cliffs that sheltered the southern part of Joppa's harbor rose high and straight from the water. It was a favorite play-place of children and fishermen.

  In ancient times the barbarians who had lived where Joppa now flourished used to perform their rituals by a particular rock which jutted out into a cliff-shielded cove. A path led down from the crest of the cliffs to the old place of sacrifice. No children scampered along it today.

  All were children, though, to others who watched them assemble along the rim. Zeus stood and stared into the image centered in the amphitheater of life, brooding and silent.

  Hera, Athene, Aphrodite, Poseidon and Thetis were grouped around him. His silence was sometimes as dangerous as his quick temper, but Thetis, having committed herself and her prestige as a goddess, was not to be denied. She stepped up to him and spoke resolutely.

  "Great Zeus, on Earth it is now the eve of the longest day. You have agreed to uphold the laws by which we immortals exist. Do so."

  "I like not this business," the king of the gods muttered. "The game has gone too far."

  "Law demands what you do now. Your own law."

  "I know, I know." He turned from the amphitheater, his voice full of bitterness. "It must be. Release the Kraken."

  Poseidon bowed slightly. "As my brother commands." There was just a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but Zeus was too upset to take note of it. He turned and left the chamber.

  Zeus returned his attention to the scene in the amphitheater. Behind his back his fingers locked and curled, their movement as intricate and troubled as his thoughts. Somehow it had all gotten out of hand.

  The procession was filling the peninsula which jutted out into the cove. Four priests flanked Andromeda, who was followed by Cassiopeia, Ammon, and the ladies-in-waiting. It was close to sunset. They would have just enough time to comply with Thetis's demand.

  Soldiers and citizens who'd straggled along in the wake of the official procession now spread out along the edge of the drop. The rock of sacrifice waited below, a basalt finger pointing away from the city—a pleasant place on most days, haunted only by the forgotten memories of less civilized times.

  The black-clad priests had assembled their massive calling horns. These were usually used to bring the people to prayer, or to announce festive occasions. Today they would sound a dirge.

  Chains and manacles had been readied on the sacrificial rock, for despite Andromeda's acceptance of her fate, there was fear among the priests that the sight of the Kraken might cause even one so strong-willed as the princess to forget her vows and try to flee. Andromeda had not argued with their proposals, had accepted their embarrassed suggestions as calmly as she had everything else.

  Now her mother, the old playwright and the ladies of the court stood back while the priests gently helped the princess down the steep path. They were determined that she would not suffer so much as a scratch d
uring the descent. Let the vengeance of the gods take its awful course, but good servitors that they were, they would keep her from harm until the last possible moment.

  One priest had tears in his eyes. An older companion chastised him sternly.

  "Do not weep and shame us before the princess, who does honor to us all."

  Until now it seemed that calm would prevail, but for all her resolve and inner strength, at the last, Andromeda was no more than young, human, and terribly frightened. As the first manacle locked tight around her right wrist her overstrained nerves finally gave out. She started struggling and screaming like any mortal.

  More shocking still to the onlookers was the sudden, piercing shriek that came from higher up, from the queen. It was the first time in twenty years of rule that anyone had heard the queen lose control. Ammon tried his best to quiet her, but the controlled resignation that had governed the royal party so well was breaking down all around him. The other ladies of the court, including the personal servants of the princess, set up an unceasing wailing.

  "Quickly," said the high priest through clenched teeth, trying not to look at Andromeda's pleading face. "Secure her and let us be away from this place." He could feel his own will cracking under those pitiful sobs.

  At last it was done: the four manacles were locked, and she was fastened to the cold rock. The priests hurried to climb the path, unable to keep from brushing at the dirt they felt but did not show. None of them would forget the last screams of the princess no matter how long they served the city of Joppa.

  The dying sun neared the western horizon. The day was almost done. On the cliffs the great curved horns commenced their languorous baying, acknowledging the end of a day which would go down in the archives as the saddest in the history of the city.

  The sun reddened the waters, a portent of what was to come. Horrified and yet unable to move away, the assembled citizenry waited with their priests and queen to see the fate of their doomed princess.