A Quest-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  The mountain was a sheer cliff newly thrust up from the sea, sharp-edged granite that wind and rain had not yet had time to weather. As he climbed, Melas soon found himself crawling up the bare rock face, groping for purchase, his knees and elbows scraped raw. The muscles of his arms ached with the effort of pulling his body upward, and the stone cut his fingers and left them bleeding.

  Clinging to the sheer face, Melas could no longer see the peak above him. He had to turn his head to see the sky. And then he looked down. The sight made him reel with shock, for he had not realized how high he had already climbed. Seagulls wheeled through the air—below him—and the ocean's breakers were thin traces of white foam on an expanse of deepest green. At the foot of the cliff the huts of his village clustered, and he could barely make out his father's forge. The people below were no larger than insects. This, he realized, was how the gods must view humanity—as utterly insignificant.

  He turned back quickly to the cliff, his heart pounding. Above him was black and white speckled granite, its crystals glinting in the sunlight. He had no way to judge how far he had come, how far he had yet to go before he reached the summit where the Titan was chained. He climbed on, finding purchase where he could, from crack to crack, from ledge to ledge. More than once he came to a place where he could not go any farther, and he had to climb back down the way he had come to seek out some other way up the mountain.

  The harsh glare of the sun had dimmed. Soon Melas found himself enveloped in the white mist of a cloud, in a chill silence. When he looked down again his village was invisible, and the peak above him hidden in the thickening fog. Cloud-gatherer! he breathed, terror constricting his throat. Suddenly, alone on the cloud-shrouded mountain, the gods were overwhelmingly real, and present.

  At that moment the sound of a thunderclap struck the mountainside, its echo making the stone tremble. The rage of Keraunos flashed through the sky. Melas clung to the rock, blinded, knowing that the god had seen his defiance. And though the wind raged around him on his exposed ledge, though the lightning made the living stone tingle beneath his feet and Melas expected at every moment that the charred, smoking cinder of his body would be hurled earthward by the god's wrath, yet the storm did not strike him.

  For a while afterward fear held him motionless, incapable either of continuing his climb or descending back down through the cloud. The mountain faced him. He reached up for a handhold, grasped it. Slowly he resumed his ascent, and in a while the cloud was below him, a white billow cutting off his sight of the earth. Above, the peak glowed in the light of the lowering sun. Now, truly, he was in the realm of the gods.

  There was a harsh cry, and he looked up. An eagle circled far over his head. “Yes, Keraunos,” Melas whispered, “I'm here.”

  The sunset's glow upon the clouds was fading to purple when Melas was forced to admit to himself that he could not reach his goal before darkness. He halted on a ledge wide enough for him to lie down to sleep and rubbed his sore and bleeding hands, took out the cheese and olives he had carried in his pouch. By this time the day's heat was leaving the stone and he shivered in his woolen garment. The night on the mountain would be cold. Though he had the gift of fire, no fuel grew on the lifeless bare rock to feed it.

  As darkness fell his thoughts returned to the forbearance of the Thunderer. The tales had it that his wrath had raised this very mountain up out of the sea. Surely he could have stricken a single mortal human clinging to its face. Was it that his power was less than men had believed? Melas had no answers. What did he really know of the gods? Only that they demanded worship and sacrifice from men, while granting little in return. If the tales were true, when the war against the Titans was finally won, Keraunos would have destroyed mankind along with the elder gods. Only Pyrophoros had intervened to save humanity, defying the Thunderer's will to bring down fire from heaven and earning the torment he now suffered.

  Now Melas dared in his turn, a mortal interfering in the affairs of gods. He had not considered, when he set out to climb the mountain, what punishment he might incur for himself. Now, for the first time, he realized that there could be a worse fate than death awaiting him here on the mountain, whether or not he succeeded. What if he were to be chained in the Firebearer's place? Yet he was mortal, and death would come eventually to end his suffering. No such mercy would be granted the Titan, no such release. Only when the chains that held him were struck away would the torture be relieved.

  Uneasy with such thoughts, Melas rested as well as he could. All through the hours of darkness the moon shone her pale light down on the narrow ledge where he lay, and before dawn the granite sparkled with a thin icy rime.

  First light woke him, the dawn of a clear, cloudless day. As Melas huddled on the mountain's edge rubbing his hands to bring back life and warmth, a swift shadow fell over him. Looking up, he heard the chilling cry of the eagle. The bird circled above the crag, but Melas was now high enough that he could see its small black eyes and cruel, rending beak. It descended toward the peak where Pyrophoros was chained, and Melas sprang to his feet with a curse, stringing his bow, setting the arrow. It flew high, straight toward its target, but at the top of its flight it fell short, and the eagle disappeared behind the rock overhead.

  A sound came then, a gasp of indescribable agony. The moans Melas had heard in his village below were only the faintest echoes of this cry, which brought the rocky heart of the mountain itself alive to tremble with the Titan's pain.

  Flinging the bow across his back, Melas began to climb in desperate, reckless haste, cursing the eagle and the god its master. All the while the cries went on, building in intensity, wringing Melas's soul with pity, but he could do nothing but keep climbing, as helpless as the chained Titan to stop the torture.

  In his impatience he lunged rashly for an outcrop, only to find his hands slipping. He slid, scraping across the rough raw face of the rock until his feet found purchase on a narrow shelf. He clung to the mountain, heart pounding as he realized how close he had come to death, but then he began the ascent once again, pulling his weight upward with bleeding fingers.

  Then, directly over his head, came the rustle of feathers, a thunderclap of wings, and the eagle was flying directly at his head, talons extended, beak open in a scream.

  Melas flung himself backward, almost off the mountain, and the eagle plunged past him, the wind of its passage striking his face. He wedged himself into a crack in the rock and braced himself with his legs as he reached behind him for his bow and set another arrow to the string, held it ready, waiting.

  Again the bird stooped to strike, but Melas bent his bow with a swift, sure movement. The arrow flew straight, piercing the eagle through its breast, and the bird screamed out its pain and rage as it fell tumbling toward the surf so very far below.

  Melas felt his hands tremble as he lowered the bow. He had come so far. He had killed the eagle, the instrument of the Fire-bearer's torment. Now he slung the bow again on his back and began the final ascent to the peak, all but overcome at what he had done, at what he was about to find there, risking the hope that in a little while he might actually succeed in releasing the Titan from his bondage.

  He grasped a last edge of rock, wedging his toes into the stone for leverage, pulled his body upward, then swung a knee over the top. He raised his head.

  The breath froze in his chest with horror and awe. He fell on the rock, unable to move. The Titan was a giant, twice the size of a mortal man, pinioned naked against the bare granite. His arms and legs were outstretched and shackled. A collar of bronze was around his throat. But worst of all, a brazen spike had been driven through his chest, directly into the living heart of the mountain, and from this wound ran glistening black blood where the eagle had torn away the flesh to savage the tortured god's heart.

  Then he spoke. “Have you come then at last, Herakles, these many years before your birth?”

  Melas rose to his knees. How should he address a god, even one chained? “Firebearer?” he a
sked uncertainly. “Pyrophoros? Has the Cloud-gatherer truly done all this to you, just for bringing men the gift of fire?”

  The Titan's sigh was a soft wind. “My real crime was to defy his will. Ten thousand years bound to this rock, with only the sun and sky as companions. And the Thunderer's wind-riding eagle.”

  Melas's heart had contracted with pity and sympathy at the sight of the mutilated flesh. But the vulture of Keraunos was dead. It would never return to its cruel feast. Daring to feel pride, he held out his bow. “It will never be back again, Pyrophoros.”

  “Ah,” said the Titan slowly. He laughed then, a faint, painful sound, but a laugh nonetheless. “I shall not miss its company.”

  Melas had not expected, of all things, that the Titan would jest. But the Firebearer's ravaged face went grave as he looked at the man standing before him. “I owe you thanks. I would know your name, Hero.”

  Melas shook his head. “Not a hero, not I. My name is Melas, and I'm only a bronzesmith from the village at the foot of the cliff. So often in the mornings I heard your pain, and …” He finished lamely, unfastening his tools from his belt, “I came to set you free.”

  “Ah,” said the Titan again, shutting his eyes. “I fear …”

  His eyes opened again. “But of course I am grateful. It has been so long.”

  Melas stepped closer, his gaze drawn against his will to the cruel spike that transfixed the Titan's chest, where the eagle had feasted on his beating heart.

  “It will heal,” Pyrophoros assured him. His voice held bitter pain. “Each morning it is whole again.”

  Melas shuddered. Again he hard the agonized cries, the newly healed wound being torn open once again, every morning for ten thousand years.

  “How could you endure it?”

  The Firebearer sighed again. “I endure it because I must. So many times I have envied your mortality. Such torment as this is possible only for the gods. Yet I cannot say I did not know my fate.”

  Melas was no longer held motionless by awe of the god, but now as he regarded the fetters on the Titan he grew more doubtful. Frowning, he set down his sack of tools and brought out his father's hammer.

  “The tale is,” he said, holding it up, “that this hammer was cast in the very fire stolen from heaven by Pyrophoros.”

  “Then,” said the Titan, “perhaps after all …” He stirred, straining against his bonds. “Strike, smith!”

  Melas already had seen that he could never loosen the massive spike that transfixed the Titan's chest. But if he could free his arms, perhaps the god's own strength might do what his could not.

  The shackle around the Firebearer's wrist was thick and twice as broad as Melas's hand, held fast by a spike driven deep into the living granite. Straining to reach it, he set his chisel and swung his hammer with all his mortal strength. Once again the crags echoed with the ringing sound of bronze. The smith labored until his muscular arms were weak and the sweat of exertion ran down his sides. But the fetters chaining the Firekindler were of adamant, forged by Hephaistos himself. Mortal strength was too weak, mortal tools too soft to sunder them. The last of Melas's chisels was soon blunted and useless, but the shackle made by Hephaistos was still unmarred.

  Melas fell to his knees, exhausted and weary with the shame of his failure. All his efforts had gone for nothing. The Firebearer was still held fast in his chains.

  The god had closed his eyes. Resignation was in his voice as he told Melas, “Do not blame yourself. The day I am destined to be freed is yet to come. I have yet another name: Foresight, and I fear that the one who will release me is not yet born. It was only when I saw you here, that for a few moments I was able to hope that I might have been wrong.”

  Melas looked up at him, full of confusion. “Foresight? Prometheus? You can foresee your own fate?”

  “Alas, too well!”

  “But then you must have seen all of this, the chains, the eagle! How could you do it, then, when you knew what would happen? How could you still defy the Thunderer?”

  The Titan's voice was distant, as if he were staring far back into the past. “Oh, yes. I knew. Yet I think I didn't know, really know, how bad it would be, how much pain …”

  “Then why?” Melas exclaimed. Surely nothing could be worth this suffering!

  The Titan's voice rose. “I was the last of us to be free. My brothers all lie chained in the darkness, crushed beneath the mountains, blasted by the Cloud-gatherer's lightning. I alone of all our race took his side in the wars. But he would have gone further and extinguished the whole race of humanity along with the Titans, for fear they might one day rebel against him. Yet the provenance of mankind was mine! Its future was my care. Yes! I defied him! I could not bow my head and yield to his will. Let him send what tortures he can devise, he can never make me submit!”

  “This seems a heavy price to pay for your pride,” Melas said slowly.

  “So Hephaistos said, too, when he chained me here. He would have refused the task if he could. He wept with pity and grief at my fate, but nonetheless he did the will of Keraunos, against his own. That is the price of submission that I would not pay!

  “I will tell you another thing, bronzesmith. The Thunderer is bound by these chains as surely as I am. For as long as I suffer here, the whole world must hear my cries and know the extent of his cruelty. And never will I beg for his forgiveness, not if I must stand here until the end of time! No, in the end, he will be the one to relent, he will be the one to know defeat!”

  The Titan's voice reached a desperate intensity. He strained against his shackles. Melas gave his head a slight shake in awe of the Titan's intransigent pride. He could not believe that anyone, even a god, would willingly choose such suffering. Had not Pyrophoros, only hours before, urged him to try to strike off his fetters? Yet pride, in his chains, was all that remained to him.

  The Titan had sagged in his bonds. Now he opened his eyes and asked calmly, “And what of you, Melas the bronzesmith, did you not also defy the Thunderer's will in coming here? Did you not fear his wrath?”

  Melas tried to gather his thoughts into words. “Down there where men live, it's hard to feel the presence of the gods. Only your cries—those I knew, those I could hear.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Now, though, on the mountain …”

  “Yes,” said the Titan gravely. “I felt his anger.”

  “But I don't understand! He could shatter this mountain with his thunderbolt! Why does he stay his hand?”

  “His own word binds him, when no other power could. The chains and the eagle are to be my punishment, not the lightning. By his own decree, he may not strike here.”

  Then the Cloud-gatherer's forbearance, Melas realized, had not been directed at him. He shook his head again, wearily, still burdened by his failure and knowing that punishment might yet strike him once he left the mountain. But not this day. And whatever the future might bring, he had done what he could.

  He leaned back against the mountain and opened his pouch. He still had half a piece of cheese and a handful of olives. And there stood the Titan, fettered in this barren place for ten thousand years. Whether for the sake of humanity or his own pride, what did it matter? “I don't suppose—would you like some?” he offered, holding out the pouch. “It isn't much.”

  The Firebearer looked surprised, as if this was one thing he had not foreseen. “Yes, please,” he said finally. “It is hard to remember the taste of food.”

  Melas reached up and held an olive to the Titan's sun-cracked lips. Pyrophoros swallowed, and a small shiver took him. “Ah,” he said, closing his eyes.

  So they shared the rest of the food while night fell over the mountain, knowing that in the morning Melas must begin his descent and the Titan must resume the loneliness of his punishment. As he took what shelter he could among the rocks, glad of his wool garment, Melas pitied the Firebearer, exposed to the ice-edged lash of the winds. Such agony, without end, that only an immortal could suffer, only a god could bear. H
e consoled himself that at least the eagle was no longer alive to rend the Titan's ever-healing flesh. His long punishment would be easier until the day the hero finally came who was destined to free him.

  But Melas's sleep was uneasy, as throughout the night he could hear the ominous roll of distant thunderclaps.

  He was awakened by a cry, an eagle's scream that chilled his spine with cold horror. Above his head, the long-winged bird circled in its descent.

  Chained to the rock, the Titan sighed, his face drawn with despair. “Curse you, Cloud-gatherer,” he said dully. And to Melas, “Ah, bronzesmith, I feared it would be so.”

  “No!” Melas cried, and then more grimly, “No.” With deliberate haste he strung his bow. “Not as long as I'm here to stop it.”

  The arrow flew, the bird dropped heavily, broken-winged, to his feet. And above the peak the angry thunder crashed, the god denied his vengeance.

  “He will send another tomorrow,” said the Titan bleakly. “Yet I thank you, archer, for this day, the first in ten thousand years without that pain.”

  Melas bent down to the dead eagle and began with care to extract his arrow from its breast. “As I said,” he declared slowly, “not as long as I'm here to stop it.”

  “You cannot stay here, bronzesmith! No mortal could survive on this rock. Go, man, while you can! You've done what you could. I brought this fate upon myself.”

  “As I will, now. Do you think I could go back down there and leave you, waiting for another vulture to come tomorrow? Should I turn my back and listen to your cries every morning of my life?”

  “I have endured it already for ten thousand years! What real difference will another day make? Or however long you last?”

  Melas shook his head, not replying. He had seen the Titan's face as the eagle began its descent. No pride could have masked that despair. He replaced the arrow carefully in his sheath.