by Dave Freer
"Compared to this? I mean, I'm not saying the U.S. is perfect . . . " Which, coming from Liz, was a bit rich. It would have been even funnier from Henri.
"Well, at least they have much wealth now," said Medea.
Lamont chuckled. "A herd of killer sheep and some ponies?"
"No, the golden fleeces," said Medea.
"They looked like bundles of sheepskins to me," said Cruz.
She frowned. "They are sheepskins. They peg them into the stream beds to gather the heavy grains of gold."
"That's what a golden fleece is?" asked Jerry, fascinated.
Medea looked at him as if he were a slightly mentally deficient child. "Of course. What else?"
Cruz, with thoughts about having to support a princess and her two children, looked at Lamont. Lamont, with thoughts of the constant battle to pay rent, never mind the bills, looked at Cruz. "Oh, Lord. Gold. No wonder they thought we were crazy!"
The golden subject returned to democracy, a concept that puzzled both Bes and Medea severely, as they continued up the mountain.
Jerry finally realized the truly amazing thing about it all. He was actually talking while walking up a thirty-five-degree slope. Either Pan's spells had some kind of bio-enhancement effect, or he was getting fit.
42
La Mort du Francais.
The three medics in the patrol had had four partially and brutally dismembered bodies that morning so far. The guy with the goatee and singed moustache was at least still in one piece, even if some of his clothing was on fire. The medics had rolled him, smothered the flames and started with cardiac massage and mouth-to-mouth within ten seconds. The third one was already sprinting for the nearest outpost. A chopper pilot with scant regard for his personal safety saw to it that Henri Lenoir received his second massive electrical shock for the day, within four minutes. This one started the heart beating erratically instead of stopping it.
It was only later when the nurses in intensive care were removing Henri's clothes, something he would have far preferred to be conscious for, that someone found the notes in his top pocket.
When Miggy Tremelo arrived fifteen minutes later, he found out, in precise longhand, just what the largest group of survivors had been up to.
* * *
Milliken stared at the copies. "It can't be genuine. It simply can't."
Miggy Tremelo pursed his lips. "It may be hallucinations, but it certainly is a genuine recital of what he experienced. There is categoric proof. Lenoir was nowhere near the large group when he was snatched. Prior to that he cannot even have seen the paratroopers. He mentions them each by name, and describes them with remarkable clarity."
The phone rang. The hospital had, true to its word, called the moment Lenoir became conscious.
* * *
Henri Lenoir was sitting propped up against the pillows, being fussed over by three nurses in crisp whites. By the gleam in the Frenchman's eye he was already engaging in thoughts not at all in congruence with the ECG monitoring equipment, the IV drip, and oxygen mask.
"He's very weak," snapped the doctor. "His heartbeat is erratic. Try and keep it as brief as possible." She plainly had no intention of leaving the room of her celebrity patient. Doctors are allowed to be curious too.
Henri patted his doctor's hand avuncularly. She just happened to be titian-haired and more than slightly attractive. "Ah, Madeleine, my dear. Just a peck on the cheek from you, and my heart would beat more strongly. It would give an old man a reason to live."
Well, thought Tremelo, the guy certainly appeared to have his wits. "Dr. Lenoir—"
"Call me Henri. I have to your American familiarity become so accustomed in the last while."
He took a couple of panting breaths and continued. "I suppose you want to know about what happens within the pyramid. I will tell you. But first you must bring to me a bottle of Chateau Lafitte. From one of the great years." He went off in a paroxysm of coughing.
The doctor shook her head, angrily. "I utterly forbid it."
But Lenoir was determined. "One small taste will do me no harm, Madeleine, petit. Just one small taste, please."
Milliken, who had also come to the hospital, was a man of decision. He turned to one of his men. "Johnson. Get it for us, please."
Miggy thrust his hands into his pockets. "Do you think this is wise, Mr. Milliken? The doctor has advised against it."
"Professor Tremelo, I know the type. You'll get nothing out of him unless you go along with him. And this guy has definitely got all his marbles. We need that story out of him."
Henri chuckled weakly.
The doctor shooed them out.
* * *
Henri Lenoir held the glass with its perfect ruby liquid in one unsteady hand. He pulled aside the oxygen mask and straightened his goatee and mustachios with a practiced if shaky gesture. He pushed aside the attempt to put the mask back. "To nose this," he panted, "will do me more good than any oxygen. This is the bouquet of the very lifeblood of la belle France. Ah! Magnifique!"
It did indeed seem to do him good. His voice sounded stronger when he spoke again. "I am afraid, good gentlemen, that I have—how do you say it?—'pulled you on a fast one.' " He smiled. "The story you already have. She is exactly as I have written it down." He put the glass to his lips with a beatific expression on his pale face.
Henri Lenoir died for the second time. But the glass that fell to the floor was empty.
PART IX
. . . there to dwell,
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms.
—John Milton,
Paradise Lost, First Book
43
Prometheus bound.
The bleak mountain crest was full of a craggy Titan. Looking at him, Jerry knew that whatever went into Titan construction it wasn't ordinary flesh and blood. Jerry was glad to see the guy. It hadn't been rock-climbing—not exactly—but the last section of the mountain, up bleak rocky slopes and icy gullies had been steep, treacherous and exhausting. Without the sphinx and the dragons, it would have been impossible. But now it was already well into the afternoon. They'd have to get off this peak before dark. With or without the big guy.
The eagle pecking at his liver hadn't even seen them. Or heard them coming, either, as Prometheus had been bellowing in pain.
Jerry looked at it worriedly. He'd forgotten about the creature. "How do we deal with Zeus' eagle?"
Cruz held up a bow, retrieved from the sheep-savaged bandits. "I can try. I'm a pretty terrible shot so far."
Jerry had been part of the practice team back at the cave where they'd stayed the night. Cruz was by far the best shot, but hitting an eagle on the wing might be a challenge beyond most experienced archers.
"The point is I'd rather not have the bird carrying word back to Zeus. We would like as much of a break as possible from foes that could be sent against us. The same goes for the dragons and Throttler. Eagles are fast and maneuverable."
Medea produced a small bottle. "I have a potion here that will silence that eagle forever."
Everyone stared at her. The woman from Colchis had become so much a part of the group that they tended to forget that she was a mistress of poisons.
Cruz nodded. "But how do we get it into the eagle?"
"I'll sort it out," said Bes easily. "I'll sneak up and get it down his gullet before he realizes it."
They also tended to forget how quietly the rambunctious dwarf-god could move when he wanted to. They watched from behind a small spur as Bes ghosted forward. Then, when he was just next to the Titan, he stood up and yelled. "Here, birdy, birdy, birdy. Here, birdy, birdy, dinner. Dinner!"
The huge eagle, startled from its gory feasting, looked up and spotted Bes. With a squawk it dived onto the small piece of new prey.
"Bloody lunatic!" yelled Liz. She broke from cover along with the rest of them, sprinting toward the wild flurry of wings, claws and flying feathers.
By the time they got there, B
es was sitting astride the eagle with the bird flat on its back. Bes' feet were holding the wings down, with the bird's talons immobilized with one hand while he wrestled with the beak with the other. "Ah. Glad you came. I can't work out how to get the stopper out of this bottle, and I haven't got another hand to pour with."
"You're a maniac," growled Cruz, cutting the eagle's throat hastily.
Bes shook his leonine head. "What's the point of doing that, Cruz? Not worth giving it poison now."
And Prometheus laughed. "Well done, mortals! Well done indeed. I have watched long for your coming." His voice was like low thunder.
* * *
Jerry had had several vague ideas about how to defeat the chain that bound Prometheus to that pinnacle. Unfortunately, he'd failed to consider the size of the Titan or the quality of the chains.
The Titan stood at least forty feet high and the chains that bound him were welded around each wrist and ankle, and then around the basalt plug. If the chains couldn't be broken, then the plug would have to be moved—and it was a pillar at least twice as big as the Titan. It had to weigh at least ten or twelve hundred tons.
Prometheus' head stood just below the top of the rock plug. Jerry thought frantically about the limited magic powers at his disposal. "If we made your chains longer, could we get them up and over the top?"
Prometheus wrinkled his shaggy frosted brow. "You could try," he said.
So Jerry and Medea got to work. They started on the chain between his arms, climbing up a pile of ice-shattered rocks to where they could reach it. The chain grew without becoming broken. Soon Prometheus could move his arms.
"Bless you, mortals! Do you know how good that feels? Just to be able to move my arms. Ah, that was a fine job you did on that eagle, but I wish I could have done it myself."
Next they climbed to the top of the rock pillar and stood on the very summit, hauling on the spiderweave rope. It took all of them, sphinx, dragons and Bes too, to haul the chain up, and over. Dropping it over the other side, they nearly brained Prometheus.
The Titan bellowed his delight at his new freedom of movement.
"The legs will be worse," said Jerry grimly.
"Why?" asked Cruz.
"For starters, there are several tons of rocks on top of the chain from that rockfall. Then, to get it over the top, we'll have to make it much longer. And I don't know if you worked out that we were changing the size of the links to get the chain bigger. They'll have to be bigger and heavier by far, to get them over the top of the pinnacle."
"Forget it then," said Cruz brusquely. "It's a no-can-do."
Jerry blinked. "We've got to try something."
"Then try something else, Doc. That one's not gonna work."
Liz looked intently at the chain. "Jerry. You can't break it. But can you change it? Pan always worked from scraps when he was making those instruments."
His eyes gleamed. "You're a genius, Liz!"
She gave a wry grin. "Yeah, and beautiful into the bargain."
"Well, I think so," said Jerry, leaving her blushing and himself amazed.
* * *
A triangle is the simplest of musical instruments. It also has an open corner.
Ten minutes later, Prometheus was free.
* * *
His triumphant laughter rang across the Caucasus. "Well, mortals. My thanks! I have been amply repaid for being the friend of mankind."
Prometheus was large. Jerry was relieved to discover that he also seemed good-natured, despite the wound in his side.
"Who do you keep calling 'mortal,' you big oaf!" bellowed Bes.
The Titan peered at the dwarf, a smile creasing into familiar lines on his gigantic face. "I see I am mistaken. But I do not know you. You are not one of the Olympians, nor yet one of the Titans. Are you perhaps one of the giants?"
"You come down here and say that and I'll punch your big nose for you! I'm a dwarf, I am, and I'm proud of it. And I'm from the land of Punt, and certainly not one of your foppish Olympians."
"I can see I'm going to like you," chuckled Prometheus. Then he grew . . . to at least three times the size he had been. "I am free of your binding, Zeus! Your chains are gone, and I am come into my powers again. Now, good rescuers, let us get off this mountain. I'd like to try the view from very nearly anywhere else. Can I give any of you a lift?"
44
Nymphomania.
Mac screamed. This is never wise when you are underwater. He fought too, with all the berserk strength that panic and fear could lend.
She was unbelievably strong. He struggled for a full five minutes before realizing that if he was going to drown, he would have done so already. And if she was a drowned woman, she wasn't into decay. And that Arachne was tapping him on the shoulder. Smiling worriedly at him. But smiling. Exhausted, he let the woman pull him down to her bower in a grotto beneath the willow roots.
Down there, she let him go. Lungs full of water, he didn't float away. He didn't feel dead—or he didn't think he felt dead. He certainly hadn't gone back to the U.S. How come he was breathing water?
Arachne busied herself with tending to his foot. That bolt from Zeus must have come closer and been hotter than he'd realized. His footwear had been one of the big advantages on this trip. That certainly wasn't true any more. Still, the ruined boot had saved him from having a cremated foot. The underwater-woman gave Arachne some green salve for it, and now Arachne was bandaging it.
Mac didn't know what happened next, because, somehow, relaxing down there in the stream bed . . . he fell asleep, or passed out. Drowning—even when you don't end up dead—takes it out of you.
He awoke to find himself on a bed of soft rootlets, canopied with drifts of algae. Sticking a hand out he realized that the water-woman had spared no effort to make it a comfortable resting spot. Warm water from somewhere played over the bed. The canopy of algae wasn't just decorative. It served to keep the bed at least five degrees warmer than the stream. He was still cold.
A greenish hand with long, manicured fingernails pulled aside the curtain of algae. It was his hostess. And Arachne. He tried speaking. Some form of sound did issue from his mouth. Vocal chords designed to work on air found this fluid medium rather different. Pitch and volume were going to have to be learned anew.
His hostess was obviously accustomed to it . . . or perhaps designed for it. "Greetings, mortal. Do you want some help to remove all those ugly clothes?" she said archly.
From off to the side of her, Arachne shook her head frantically. Obviously, the movement caught the eye of the naked water-woman. "Go away, little spider," she hissed. "I kept him alive and he's mine now. He looks quite strong for a mortal. I think I'll keep him a while."
Arachne was obviously protesting and indignant. It didn't look as if she was going to prevail, however.
"I said go, spiderlet! Or shall I summons my fish to eat you?" The water-woman showed her teeth.
Arachne went, shaking a foot defiantly, as she moved up the roots towards sunlight and air.
McKenna was left very alone with a water creature with only one thing on her mind. She produced an amphora of wine. Drinking underwater from a rigid container means you'd better like your drink watered. Mac managed not to drink very much.
Normally, Mac would have thought that getting drunk and being seduced by a naked naiad sounded like a pretty good deal. And the nymph called Neiradne definitely came under the heading of "well built."
Now, he just wanted to get out of there. Neiradne made it instantly clear that wasn't an option. And she was unbelievably powerful, as he had found on his only attempt. So Mac had to bide his time. Her fingers worked at his buttons, or trailed over him. Which might have been fun if he wasn't just about at the uncontrollable shivering phase of being cold. And besides, he was anxious to see how many of the balloon-makers had survived.
He couldn't believe that Arachne had just left him like that. . . .
* * *
He noticed the change in the pressur
e first. Then he saw that it was definitely brighter under the roots. Whatever was happening he hoped that it would become warmer. Neiradne was trying to feed him pieces of raw fish . . . when she suddenly noticed the changes.
"My stream! What's happening to my stream?" She shrieked and shot out of the grotto in a trail of bubbles.
As soon as she was out, Mac knew the time had come to bolt, if he was ever going to. His limbs were nearly numb and totally clumsy. But he forced himself to paddle—all he could manage—for the surface. It seemed like a long way.
Arachne was suddenly there, looping a rope over his shoulders, and he found himself being hastily dragged to the surface. When he'd gone into it, the hole must have been twenty feet deep. Somehow the water level had dropped. He crawled up the willow root-mass trying to get a grip with his numb fingers. Arachne and several thousand ordinary spiders hauled him up.
"You must get the magic water out of your lungs!" said Arachne urgently. They dragged him up the steep slope as the water streamed out of his nose and lungs. Gasping and spluttering, he managed to draw breath. There was still a lot of the liquid inside him, but whatever it had done to his lungs, it wasn't ordinary water in there.
Coughing and retching, he managed to breathe again. Of course, he was also shivering uncontrollably. But there was sunlight on his back. And Arachne was clinging to him with all of her spider legs.
"I thought I'd never see you again," he said weakly.
The spidergirl kissed his cheek. "We must get you warm."
They carried him to a cave, as Arachne informed him that the farm's houses were destroyed. He was amazed to be greeted by enthusiastic clapping and cheering from the assembled people. His wet clothes were stripped off without any attention to decorum; he was wrapped in a warm blanket and put in a prime position in front of the fire. Somebody thrust a goblet of hot mulled wine, full of honey and herbs, into his shaking hand.
"Arachne," he said, as soon as he could speak, "thank you. I didn't know how cold I was. I guess I'd just been getting slowly colder." He still felt cold. He vaguely remembered the lectures on exposure. Once your core temperature starts dropping, then it is lassitude down into death. He hadn't quite been there yet, but insidiously it had been creeping up on him. You can die in cold water just as easily as you can in minus-zero air. It just takes much, much longer.
