The Reign of Wizardry

by Jack Williamson

  He waited, feeling the quiver of the sand to the tread of Talos. The twelve-foot shining giant came up to him. The fiery eyes looked down, filled with simple cunning, and the hollow voice rumbled:

  “I remember you, Gothung the Northman. I spoke with you when you came ashore from the wrecked galley of the pirate Firebrand.” His chuckle was an immense deep reverberation. “And I know you still. For Talos is no fool!”

  Theseus felt that Captain Firebrand, just now, was a very dangerous subject. He contrived to stand on the hot sand, swaying. He had no idea what to expect—except fresh peril! The hushed, startled crowd had no look of a people greeting a new ruler. It seemed insane to think that Minos would willingly surrender the throne.

  Anxiously, in quest of further aid, his eyes roved up across the tiers of seats, to where he had seen Snish. But the little wizard, as he half expected, had vanished again. If Snish indeed had taken a hand in the games, that was all he could expect. He looked back, with concealed apprehension, into the flame-yellow eyes of Talos.

  “Well?” His voice was faint and dry. “What do you want?”

  “Master, now you are going to be the new Minos.” The words of Talos were a throbbing roll of brazen sound. “And I shall be your slave. I have come to serve you.”

  “Then,” whispered Theseus, “show me the way to the throne I have won.”

  “Wait, master,” rumbled Talos.

  A breathless quiet still filled the long bowl. There was not even a whisper, save from Minos and Daedalus and Ariadne. Those three had come together on the little platform from which they had launched arrow and boomerang and shot. They spoke together furtively in the secret language, and at last Minos called something to the herald.

  The horns keened a last fanfare, and the herald shouted hoarsely:

  “Let Gothung the Northman come now to the palace of Knossos. Let him bathe, and rest from the ardor of the trials he has passed. At sunset, let him come to the sacred hall of the double ax.

  “There he will receive all that the favor of the Dark One has bestowed upon him. The robe of Minos will be placed upon his shoulders, and he will take his place among the gods. Cybele will be wed to him. And he will take up the double ax of war and peace that is the sign of the Dark One’s regency.”

  Theseus touched the hot, smooth brass thigh of Talos.

  “Tell them,” he whispered, “that I shall do that.”

  The great voice boomed out obediently.

  “Now,” breathed Theseus, “lead the way to Knossos! I shall follow you.”

  Talos stalked back toward the massive gate, and Theseus staggered after him. It took all his strength to walk. Yet he contrived to stride boldly, to hold his yellow head high. Even if he should die now, he thought, from some warlock’s trick, or a cowardly blade in his back, it would be in the midst of a triumph that must at least have shaken the power of Minos.

  As he moved, a hushed and voiceless sound ran among the still-seated thousands. It seemed to hold a breathless surprise. There was relief in it, and dread. And also, Theseus thought, disappointment.

  The great portal was opened for them at the end of the arena. Theseus paused for a moment in it, looked back. The crowd was beginning to rise, with an increasing murmur of awed and excited voices. Minos and Daedalus and Ariadne had gone.

  Theseus followed the long strides of the brass man through the streets of Ekoros, toward the mighty pile of Knossos. This was a rich suburb, far different from the squalid quarter where he had met the palanquin of Ariadne.

  The stone-paved streets were wider, clean-swept. There were no open sewers, no naked babies playing. High stone walls shut the villas away from the road, and only the trees of secluded gardens looked above them.

  Evidently a rumor of the outcome of the games had already passed through the town. For the street was clear. The only people Theseus saw were lying on their faces in the intersecting alleys. A hushed silence followed him. Only once, from a huddle of rags, a woman’s thin voice quivered out:

  “Oh, new Minos! Pity your people, in their want. Clothe them, in their nakedness. Feed them, in their starvation. Remember that you were human once, and spare them from the terror of your power!”

  Even when they came to the long mass of the palace, upon its low eminence, none appeared to greet them. Theseus heard only distant whispers and far, hurried steps, merely glimpsed fearful figures hastening down dark endless corridors.

  For all his anxiety and fatigue, he felt an awe at the vastness and the splendor of Knossos. The intricacies of its courts and corridors and lightwells and stairs and piled-up rooms bewildered him. But everywhere were rich tapestries, matchless frescoes, jars of purple gypsum—marks of wealth that woke Captain Firebrand in him.

  “What a place,” he murmured, “for us to loot!”

  The floor beams creaked rather ominously beneath the tread of Talos. But he guided Theseus through the hushed corridors, and across an immense, flagstone-paved central court, and down a wide stair toward the river.

  His fatigue half forgotten, Theseus was staring with a breathless elation at all the rich splendor they passed. It was his! He had won it, in the games. And it was going to be formally bestowed on him, after sunset—unless some warlock’s trick intervened!

  But not his for long, he knew. For he had won it, not for himself, but for the people of Crete, and his own Attica, and all the world. His next task—if, indeed, he had won anything—was to crush the priests and warlocks, end the cruel worship of the Dark One, shatter the reign of wizardry.

  Then—well, the long habit of wandering had grown too strong to be easily broken. There was Egypt, with ancient wonders of its own. There were the strange far lands of the East. And, doubtless, other stranger lands beyond them.

  Talos stopped beside a doorway.

  “These rooms are yours, master,” he boomed softly. “The slaves within will bathe you, serve all your needs. Rest until the sun has set. I shall wait by the door.”

  And Talos abruptly became perfectly motionless, in an odd way he had, so that he looked precisely like a huge statue of polished brass. Simple cunning was set upon his huge bright face, and the flame-yellow eyes stared fixedly.

  Theseus walked wearily past him, into a rich apartment, illuminated from a white-plastered lightshaft. The walls were bright with lively scenes from the arena, graceful youths and girls vaulting over savage bulls. The cool rooms were furnished in the richly simple Cretan fashion, with rugs and low couches.

  Two slaves showed him into the bathroom, lifted him into a long bronze tub. Dissolving the grime of dungeon and arena, the hot soapy water felt very good. He didn’t even mind the sting of it in his shallow wounds. He was beginning to feel very sleepy.

  For a few moments his attention was held by the novelties of running water, drains, and a toilet that flushed. But his eyes were half closed when the slaves lifted him out of the tub. They toweled him, rubbed fragrant oil over his wounds, carried him to a low couch. He was sound asleep before he touched it.

  It was dusk when Theseus woke, and a slave was entering with a flaring clay lamp. He sat up on the couch. His body had stiffened, the wounds were throbbing and swollen, and he felt a ravenous hunger. But no food was offered him.

  “Come, Northman,” rolled the deep voice of Talos. “The gods are waiting for you, in the sacred hall.”

  Still naked, Theseus rose and followed the brass man again. Flaming wicks lit the way. Once more they traversed the maze of courts and corridors and stairs, bewildering with the afterthoughts and alterations and additions of a thousand years. Theseus glimpsed slaves, kneeling as they passed, and said to Talos:

  “Tell them to follow me.”

  “That is forbidden,” the brass man rumbled. “Only the royalty, nobles, warlocks, and rich may enter the hall of the double ax.”

  “It is forbidden no longer,” Theseus said. “For I am claiming the throne for the people of Crete, and I want them to be present. Bid them follow—all the artisans a
nd slaves.”

  Talos looked back, his bright simple face perplexed.

  “Minos would not like that.”

  “But I am the new Minos,” Theseus said, “and I command it.”

  Still doubtful, the great voice of Talos boomed out the call. Theseus was aware of hushed and apprehensive steps, following behind them.

  At last they came into the solemn vastness of the sacred hall, whose huge square columns were graven with the double ax. Weirdly colored flames leaped above tripod braziers shaped like bulls’ heads. A black-curtained altar was covered with a white cloth, and a polished ancient ax of black obsidian lay upon it. Black-robed priests knelt beside it. Before it, robed in white and black, stood Minos and Daedalus.

  Talos halted before them, rumbled:

  “Here is Gothung the Northman, who was today chosen by the Dark One to take the throne. He is ready.”

  Standing beside him—suddenly extremely conscious of his empty-handed nakedness—Theseus looked into the face of Minos. It smiled back at him, dimpling, and the small eyes, in the flickering light of the braziers, seemed to twinkle with an expansive merriment. Minos looked past Theseus, at the slaves and artisans filing silently into the hall. He chuckled, and his silken voice said:

  “Scourge them out!”

  But Theseus lifted a protesting arm.

  “Stop! I called them to follow me. For they are the people of Crete, and they are going to be the new rulers. I claim the throne for them. I warn you now that the reign of the warlocks and the Dark One is ended!”

  White-robe and black looked at one another. The gnarled dark face was inscrutable as the dimpled rosy one. It seemed to Theseus, however, that an unholy glee had flamed for a moment in the hollow black eyes of Daedalus. But Minos smiled again.

  “Let them stay,” he said softly, “and see their god!”

  The kneeling priests began a low, solemn chant, in the secret tongue. The wizard Daedalus, his hollow voice choked and snarling, called:

  “Come forward, Gothung the Northman. Receive the vestments of Minos, take your divine bride, accept the double ax of the Dark One, and assume your place among the gods.”

  Striving to conceal a shiver of apprehension, Theseus went forward to the altar. At a signal from Daedalus, he knelt before it. Chanting in the secret tongue, the warlock lifted the white robe from the shoulders of Minos, draped it over him. The priests were abruptly silent. Rising, Theseus felt a hush of expectancy, saw eyes seek a dark doorway beyond the altar.

  He looked, and Ariadne entered. She carried a silver lamp, and its rays shone red in the glory of her hair, white on her proud face, green on her long, loose robe. The white dove was fluttering on her shoulder. She came around the altar, and walked with a regal grace toward Theseus.

  Theseus watched her face. It was white, frozen. Her features were cold as some lovely marble statue’s, her green eyes dark and frosty with a scornful hate. She paused before Theseus, looking beyond him. The sepulchral voice of Daedalus croaked:

  “Through Ariadne, who is her vessel, daughter of Minos and sorceress of the serpent, the All-Mother Cybele takes him who was Gothung the Northman to be her honored husband, and welcomes him into the circle of the gods.”

  Ariadne stood proud and straight before Theseus, and still her cold angry eyes refused to see him. The dark claws of Daedalus lifted away the loose robe. She was left in a sea-green gown, whose tight scanty bodice revealed all her womanly splendor.

  The deep rusty voice of Daedalus rang hollowly: “Do you, Ariadne, the vessel of Cybele, take this new god to your heart?”

  The white dove fluttered back to the shoulder of Ariadne, and the silver serpent writhed about her waist. Its eyes were crimson gems, Theseus saw, that glittered evilly. Her golden voice faint and cold, she said: “I take him.”

  Theseus stood still, and saw a pale flush come up into her white skin. He relaxed a little, and dared to grin at her helpless wrath. Things were proceeding unexpectedly well. But Daedalus croaked at Ariadne:

  “Then greet the new god with a wifely kiss—for you are now his bride.”

  The face of Ariadne went whitely tense, and the green eyes flamed. Theseus grinned again.

  “We have already quarreled over the duties of motherhood,” he told Daedalus. “Let us now forgive her womanly temper. I shall find time presently to teach her the obligations of a wife.”

  The warlock’s gnarled face twisted into a black mask of hate. His sunken smoldering eyes stared for a long time at Theseus, as if their sinister power would consume him. At last he turned, shaken as if with a stifled fury, to the stone ax on the altar.

  “Being the hand of the Dark One,” he croaked hoarsely, “I offer the new Minos the sacred ax, whose twin blades are the crafts of war and the arts of peace, that is the token of the Dark One’s regency.” He reached for the worn ancient haft, but:

  “Stop!” hissed the silken voice of Minos. “He is not yet a god!”

  There was something impish in the rosy, dimpled smile, and the merry little eyes sparkled with an unwonted glee. Pink and stout without his robe, Minos bounced to the side of his daughter, whispered softly.

  Apprehensively watching, Theseus saw the frigid white features of Ariadne break into a dazzling smile. She looked back at him, and her green eyes flamed a merciless triumph. Eagerly, her golden voice pealed:

  “Wait! I see my duty. The new god shall have the salutation that is due him!”

  Eagerly, she came back to Theseus. The white dove fluttered for balance, and ruby eyes glittered from the twisting serpent-girdle. Smooth and white and warm, her arms slid around the tense shoulders of Theseus.

  “My divine master!” Her voice was a golden taunt, suave mockery shone in her long green eyes. “A kiss!”

  Theseus knew that Minos had trapped him. Desperately he sought escape. He caught the smooth shoulders of Ariadne, thrust her roughly back.

  “You refused it,” he said. “Now wait till I am ready.”

  But Minos smiled his pink baby-smile, and the blue eyes twinkled. And Theseus discovered abruptly that he was held fast by unseen bonds, as he had been in the arena.

  “Now, my lord.” The eyes of Ariadne sparkled. “One kiss!”

  Her long white body pressed close to his again, and he could make no move. Deliberately, her hot red lips sought his own, clung. Theseus abruptly felt the slackening of her arms, the new looseness of the white robe of Minos. And Ariadne stepped back from him, with mimic astonishment on her white face.

  “Who are you, redhead?” her whisper mocked him. “And where is the godly spouse of Cybele?”

  Released from those fetters of wizardry, Theseus looked despairingly down at his hands. They were lean and tanned—his own, not the huge sunburned hams of the Northman. They clenched, impotently.

  He heard the soft faint tinkle of the laughter of Minos.

  “Here, Talos!” whispered the silken woman-voice. “Here is the prisoner you have sought—the pirate Firebrand! He has stolen my robe! Seize him! Throw him into the deepest dungeon, to await the justice of the Dark One.”

  With a triumphant snarling sound, Daedalus tore the white robe from Theseus, wrapped it back about the pink pudgy shoulders of Minos. The ruler was trembling with soft laughter, and the small merry eyes were almost hidden in his rosy smile.

  “But we were placing my successor on the throne,” he sobbed through the laughter. “Where is the Northman?”

  The floor creaked, as Talos strode toward Theseus. In the instant that was left to him, Theseus seized Ariadne, crushed her long body against him so hard she gasped with pain. “This is not the end,” he breathed, “my bride!”

  Deep within him, however, he feared that it was. He recalled the calm wager of Minos on Gothung. Suddenly he was certain that the rosy, jovial little warlock had penetrated his guise at the beginning, that his victory in the arena and this delayed exposure had been but an idle gambit—a game to break the tedium that thirty generations of life must become.<
br />
  The hot resistless hand of Talos crushed down on the arm of Theseus, dragged him away. Looking back, he saw that Minos still quivered with laughter. Ariadne was staring after him with a curious startled expression, her face white as the fluttering dove.

  THIRTEEN

  THE DUNGEON, lost somewhere beneath the rambling maze of Knossos, was not unlike that in which Theseus had awaited the games. A square, granite-lined pit, sunk deep in living rock, it was damp with dripping water, cold with a bonepiercing chill, foul with old decay. Theseus was alone in it.

  No faintest ray of light, however, reached the pit to mark the passing days. No sound filtered to it from the life above. Theseus knew there must be guards somewhere in the stone-hewn passages above, but he heard no voice or step. The dungeon was a tomb of living death.

  Lying in that other pit, before the games, Theseus had boasted that a man might escape from such a place—if he had to. Now, Theseus saw, he had to. And he tried the plan that he had made.

  He had waited endlessly for the guards to come with food. But no food was brought. He seemed as completely isolated as if he had been the only man alive. The justice of the Dark One, apparently, began with solitary starvation.

  Theseus felt sure that it must be someone’s duty, however, to ascertain from time to time if he still survived. And, when every hope of finding escape by the strength of his own hands was gone, he began calling at intervals into the blackness above:

  “Ten talents of silver for a message to Admiral Phaistro!”

  Ten talents of silver was four times a man’s weight of the most precious metal. One talent was vast wealth. Ten was enough to excite the cupidity of any man. But the voice of Theseus rang hollowly against the bare, hard stone, and died into silence, and there was no response.

  He called the words again and again, until his voice was gone. He slept, woke, croaked his hoarse appeal, slept and woke again, and whispered it. Time was short, he knew, when his strength and sanity would last to carry out the plan.