Clash of the Titans

by Alan Dean Foster

  He roused himself to full alertness, watching the huge carrion-eater sink into a shifting, cloying mist. They were far from the cool shore breezes of Joppa now. The air rising from below was humid and hot. Where moisture met desert in the lowlands and where there was ample ground water, one sometimes found the foulest of swamps. It was a fitting home for the vulture.

  And for its master, Perseus thought darkly. He dug his thighs into Pegasus's flanks, murmuring "Down." Soon they too were swallowed up by the mists.

  As they dropped, the temperature began to rise. Soon it was uncomfortably humid, despite the fact that it had been a pleasant night in Joppa. Sweat rolled from both man and horse. Perseus peered downward but could see nothing, and had to hope his mount had a better sense of its surroundings than did its poor, blinded rider.

  Then the mist seemed to lighten, letting the moonlight through, and he could see they were not far from the surface.

  The trees of the benighted land were twisted as if in pain, their leaves hungry for the sunlight that rarely penetrated here. Bushes crouched low to the earth, as though ashamed of what this land had made them. There were no flowers. Even the reeds and rushes looked unhealthy, marked as they were by gray, scabrous growths that clung persistently to their stems.

  Water moved like oil, sluggish and tired. In places noisome smells rose from bubbling pits of sludge. From time to time something hiding deep in this foul landscape would emit a challenging, lingering cry, a sound as devoid of beauty or grace as its surroundings.

  Somewhere in that mist was a huge disturbance where something large moved. Feet followed cage as the vulture descended to the rheumy earth. It hovered carefully and let the golden prison settle easily onto a sandbar flanking what passed in that land for a flowing stream.

  The door opened. The figure of Andromeda rose mechanically and stepped out. She began walking toward a dark, gaping hole in the mossy flank of a crumbling cliff. Cawing approvingly to itself, the vulture settled nearby on a massive exposed root the thickness of many trees. Its eyes closed. It would wait thus until summoned.

  No normal young woman, no matter how brave, would stride so indifferently through that nightmare landscape. Toads and beetles the size of dogs crossed her path, scuttling or hopping out of her way. She ignored them; oblivious to their presence. A crocodile slid through the brackish water nearby, a lean, dark, green length of solid muscle. It edged in its loglike fashion closer and closer to the walking figure.

  Then it took note of something unseen. The reptilian eyes could not show fear, but the carnivore turned instantly from its intended prey and dove with a violent slash of its powerful tail, leaving only a trail of bubbles in its wake.

  There was a sound of footsteps and breaking twigs. The feet that made imprints on the soft earth were no longer entirely human. Once they were. Now they supported a demonic grotesquerie. Anger and magic had turned that powerful figure into something out of delirium. Its posture was crooked, the face a twisted mask of failed humanity, a true mirror of the mind that now lay buried beneath horn and bone.

  It could not wait any longer within its lair and so had lurched out to meet Andromeda. She stopped. The silence that ensued was broken only by the sounds of bubbles bursting in the muck, by an excited cry from the briefly awakened vulture, and by a persistent, unpleasant, heavy breathing.

  Two massive arms reached for the slightly swaying figure of the princess. They held the ends of a necklace of fine gold worked by the inhuman smiths who inhabit the border region between Earth and Hades.

  "A gift for you," the figure growled thickly. Andromeda did not react. Her eyes stared vacantly forward, as though the gift-giver were not present.

  Calibos placed the necklace around her throat, his hands trembling slightly at the nearness. Thick fingertips wrestled with the latch and finally succeeded in securing it. Then the man-thing stepped back, studying the effect of the necklace on that smooth, pale throat. It shone brightly even in the dim misty light, testimony to the skill of goldsmiths who worked with things finer than hands.

  "It is good. It becomes you, Andromeda. Your neck flatters the gold." She did not respond.

  He grunted hoarsely and turned to gesture imperiously toward the dark hollow in the cliff face. Obediently Andromeda resumed her walk, the beast following impatiently. He limped slightly on his cloven hoof, favoring the still human foot.

  Once the place might have been a temple. Now it offered shelter only to creatures of the dark, to persistent probing roots and plants. Water dripped from the roof of crumbling limestone. The place had witnessed war and pestilence in eons past. Now it was to Calibos his refuge, to anyone else, his lair.

  Skulls decorated portions of the cavern, their bleached curves whiter than the decaying marble they were perched upon. There were weapons taken from those foolish enough to cross into Calibos's domain, each spear or sword set by a matching skull.

  Andromeda walked in, impassively moving past ruined blocks of stone which had tumbled to the floor, stepping over cracks and crevices. She knew what was expected of her. She halted before the ancient throne which Calibos had made his own. Silent and helpless, she stood there and waited.

  Calibos marched up beside her, hesitated a moment as always, then ascended his throne. He sat silently studying her, one clawed hand tapping an arm of his seat. It was quiet in the cavern. As before, they had a waiting game to play out.

  And as before, it was Andromeda who broke the silence and spoke first. If she did not, Calibos would remain content simply to drink in the sight of her. It was easier to have him talking.

  "Calibos . . . why have you summoned me here, yet again? Why so many journeys, so many times? I've never before asked you your reasons."

  "Is that because you feared to know the answer?" he countered. "Or can it be that your curiosity has finally overcome your fears?"

  "I think I have always known, but saw no reason to discuss the inevitable. You know that I will not marry you. Your magic compels me to come here, but not all the power of the dark spirits can force me to accept you."

  "Little fool." He shook his head slowly, his expression a cross between smile and snarl, the two welded together by frustration.

  "I know that as well as you. Did you think, though, that I would surrender you so easily? I cannot have you, but even if I cannot look on your true beauty, I can bring its mirror image here, and look on it, and remember how you once loved me. And I will continue to do so until we are both aged and deformed." He laughed at his own humor, a deep, guttural noise.

  "Loved? I was promised to you, Calibos. Promised as an infant. I never loved you, not then and not now. Once I respected you as a noble lord, but even that soon left me."

  "You loved me!" A heavy fist slammed down on the arm of the throne, nearly crackling the wood. The sound reverberated through the cavern. Tiny crawling things rushed for deeper, safer holes. "You did!"

  "No, Calibos. Never."

  "You did, you did, you did! Before Zeus damned me, before I was cursed with deformity." He calmed himself and his tone softened.

  "Remember how I was then, Andromeda." He spoke imploringly. "Remember what I was like as . . . as a man."

  "I remember. You were handsome and strong. Rut the inner self your body now mimics showed through even then. You were cruel, Calibos. Cruel and callous and uncaring. You laughed at those who were not blessed with your heritage, your looks, your wealth, and you tormented those lesser than you.

  "Now you have become less than them." She nodded once, sleepily. "This is not damnation you suffer, but justice."

  "You reject me, as always."

  "I cannot love you, Calibos of the Marshes. Not now and not even if you were changed back to your former self. I have seen you as you are. You would always remain ugly to me, Calibos." She raised a shaky, unsteady hand and pointed at him. "You see, Calibos, I know you."

  The Lord of the Marshes turned his head away as if in pain. In his anguish he could not tell for certain wheth
er it was his unrequited love or the truth of Andromeda's words which stung him, more.

  Then he whirled back round to glare down at her, nostrils flared, saliva dripping from the two fangs which had grown from his canines. His tone changed and his real self surged to the fore.

  "Know then," he said harshly, his voice now a rasping probe, "that it is time for you to learn another mystery, to memorize another question. By the powers given to me by invocation to Father Hades, by the strength of my curse and by the goddess my mother Thetis, I hold you still to your marriage contract. Another question for another suitor—when will one answer you aright? When will the curse be broken?

  "I will answer for you. Never! You will learn new questions and new riddles." He chuckled grossly, his true self taking free rein. "You will watch the worthy perish along with the pretenders. What pleasure you give to the executioners of Joppa! Never have they been so busy."

  "No, I beg you. No more fires in the city square. No more deaths on my behalf."

  "On your behalf? Why dearest Andromeda, sweetest Andromeda, Andromeda of the legendary beauty, it is not I who compel so many brave young men to join their predecessors at the stake. They do so voluntarily." He sneered down at her. "For the love of the fair princess.

  "But in the end they all burn, and in so doing they have the better of me, for their passion is put to an end quickly, while mine curses me anew every day and night! Put an end to it? Fulfill your contract with me."

  "You know I cannot, Calibos."

  "I know you will not." He rose and cracked the whip he kept always close at hand.

  Several desiccated figures, more scarecrow than substance, stepped out into the dim light before the throne. One carried a torch of flaming pitch-soaked wood. A second held a flayed animal skin cured dry and tough as old parchment.

  The third was dressed in the guise of a huntsman, which he might once have been. Now he served darker desires than mere hunger. From his right hand dangled the feathered leg and claw of a raven. The stump of the leg was ragged and torn. It had not been cut from its owner. Blood dripped steadily to the floor.

  The three figures surrounded the motionless princess. She swayed, sickened as always by their nearness, but as always her legs would not obey her. Indeed, her legs were back in Joppa, sprawled asleep on the tower bed.

  One of the scarecrow creatures unrolled the animal skin. Calibos leaned close, enjoying Andromeda's inability to draw away from his leprous visage.

  "Look closely at the skin. Look! I command it." Reluctantly the princess's gaze dipped to examine the skin.

  "Mark the words well, Andromeda. A new question to test the next would-be hero, a new puzzle for your next savior." Again the deep-throated chuckle sounded. "A new opportunity to warm the mob with the heat of burning flesh."

  The huntsman-thing stepped forward and scrawled on the dry skin with the bloody claw. He drew a pair of circles, the smaller above the larger. Then he surrounded the circles with formal Greek, the calligraphy as crude as it was gory.

  The huntsman worked hard and conscientiously, knowing too well the penalty for a smeared word or wrong letter. At last he was finished. Taking the skin from the figure holding it, he turned and held it so that Andromeda could see nothing else.

  "Mark," the huntsman-thing commanded, "and remember-r-r-r-r." The voice was weak. The dead speak but infrequently, and so forget how to use their throats and tongues.

  Andromeda stared at the skin, at the bloody symbol of Calibos's ring and the letters that danced mockingly around it. She could not turn away. Her eyes obeyed her no better than her legs.

  The letters and their meaning were burnt into her brain, along with a reminder of the curse and its awful potential. She could not chance disobeying it, could not expose her own people. She would have to obey. In his wrath Zeus had inadvertently punished her as thoroughly as he had Calibos.

  "You understand?" he asked her as the huntsman rolled up the skin. She nodded slowly.

  "When the times comes, when the next suitor presents himself, you will remember the question you have just seen. Only the correct answer can free you," he said, smirking, "and send you into the arms of your lover. While he still has arms, that is." He turned his attention back to the servitors, who waited with the patience of the undead.

  "Enough. Finish it."

  The huntsman bowed slightly. Turning to the torchbearer, he thrust the rolled skin into the flames. The dry skin burned rapidly, producing a stench that affected even the Lord of the Marsh.

  When only ashes remained of the skin and the new secret was safely sealed, the huntsman and his two necrotic companions turned and marched solemnly back into the shadows from whence they'd been called.

  It was time to end another visit, Calibos mused. Time to let her return. He could keep her with him, he knew. Keep her here close and warm by him. But it was only her shade, her shadow, a part of her.

  He wanted all of her.

  It was promised that it should be so, he muttered to himself. No matter what she or anyone else says, it was promised. My curse keeps a tether on that promise, and I will hold fast to it forever. She will consent one day. Or she will grow old and die alone. Alone save for that part of her which I command.

  He reached out and down, and with his hand touched the bare white shoulder. A single ring gleamed on one clawed finger as it moved down her arm. The circlet of silver was finely worked and topped by an enormous twin pearl. Calibos was not particularly fond of pearls but he fancied these because so many others envied him them and could not enjoy them while they remained in his possession.

  Like Andromeda, he thought with satisfaction.

  The claw hand traveled down the motionless arm, moved across the arch of one hip and down a lightly clad thigh. It lingered there.

  "Calibos." Her voice had grown weaker and he knew he had to let her return. His hand tingled from the contact with her skin, secondhand or not.

  "I implore you," she continued feebly. "I beg now as I have begged before. Lift your curse from Joppa and release my soul. Show pity, Calibos. You say you loved me and love me still. If that is so, then you will release me now."

  Hesitantly the shade reached out to touch his cheek. He spent a long moment savoring the unexpected caress. Then in an instant, his twisted mind saw the touch as a lie, designed only to trick him. It was contempt she was showing him, not concern.

  Well, he would have none of it, none! Did she think him so easily fooled?

  Contemptuously he slapped her hand aside. "I do not want your pity, Andromeda. Beg all you please. I will continue to call out your soul as often as I like. I will release you from the curse only after you've agreed to fulfill your contract.

  "Now go, get out, back to your sleeping shell, back in your precious city! I feel your disgust for me even in your shade. Leave me . . . and take with you the question for your next panting suitor." He gestured angrily toward the opening leading out of the cavern and turned away from her.

  Andromeda's head dropped. It was not a gesture born of despair or defeat. She was looking at the necklace he'd placed on her when she'd first arrived.

  Her fingers moved slowly, but insistently. The latch opened, and with a slight splattering sound the necklace fell into the mud at her feet.

  She turned and flowed toward the mouth of the cave.

  Calibos turned back, unable to deny himself the pleasure of watching her depart. He stared fixedly at the grace and bearing of her walk, the smooth movement of her legs and hips. Outside, the vulture was beginning to caw in expectation, preparatory to returning the princess to her true body in distant Joppa.

  Too much beauty, Calibos thought furiously. Too much so near, and yet never to be his. Unable to look at her any longer he turned his gaze downward.

  Even the necklace had been spurned because it came from him. The necklace which he had bargained for at the border of Hades itself. It lay like a strand of ordinary beads half buried in the moist earth, discarded and shut out as ca
llously as his love and . . .

  His eyes flickered and he leaned sharply forward, like a cat mindful of the sudden, unexpected proximity of prey. The necklace lay ignored where Andromeda had dropped it, half glittering in the slime.

  Whence arise these oddly familiar depressions close by the strand of gold? he thought.

  Strange—too small to be his own and the princess's shade left none. There were many of them, and even as he stared, more of them appeared. They were moving toward the cavern entrance, following in the princess's wake.

  How intriguing—more magic than his own was apparently at work this night. It promised a diversion most welcome to one whose principal pastime was bemoaning his unfortunate fate.

  Calibos hopped off the throne, crouching low over the ground, and slowly started to follow the alien footprints.

  Scarecrows and large newts, skeletons and half-rancid corpses—the attendants of Calibos's dark court moved to join him to see what had attracted his attention. He snapped his whip once and they shrank back, crawling into their holes and crevices.

  The footprints followed the princess's path until well outside the cavern. Then they turned to one side. Calibos followed them expectantly.

  It was still night in the swamps, but somehow the moon penetrated the mists enough to illuminate the grotesque terrain. Will-o'-the-wisps danced among the creepers and owls hooted dispiritedly as they searched for rodents. The frogs and toads were in full voice, their croaking rising in a crescendo that would climax with the dawn.

  Perseus struggled through the muck. His sword was still fastened securely at his belt, but he'd nearly lost the helmet twice already because of poor-footing. If the helmet fell into some bottomless mud sump it would be lost to him forever. Confident now in the success of his journey, he removed it and tucked it securely under one arm.

  His gaze went upward, though there was very little difference between mist and sky.

  "Pegasus!" he called out as loudly as he dared, though he estimated he'd come a considerable distance from Calibos's lair. He continued wading through the fog. "Pegasus, my good friend! To me!"