"If we don't return," Perseus finished for him, "it will mean that we've failed." His expression was unreadable. "Dead men travel in only one direction on the River Styx. At least if we fail we will not have far to travel to the land of the dead." He turned and studied the mournful fog.
"It's told in some tales that the river itself possesses strange powers. Time to see if any of the legends are true."
"Surely the Stygian Witches would not lie to us about Medusa's home," said Menas.
"Oh, surely not," Thallo said sarcastically, but he found himself half hoping the three evil sisters had lied; that Medusa did not await Perseus and the others somewhere in the center of this strangely peaceful lake.
But if they had, he reminded himself firmly, then there would be no hope for the Princess of Joppa. Nor for Perseus—and he'd come to like and admire the young prince. He'd make a fine, just ruler some day—the sort of ruler who'd respect the desires and take the advice of experienced old soldiers.
If Andromeda and Perseus perished, whether at the hand of the Kraken or otherwise, Joppa would be thrown into turmoil. Queen Cassiopeia was past childbearing age and Andromeda was her only heir.
With the succession shattered, there would be civil war the length and breadth of Phoenicia as pretenders and hopefuls vied for the crown. Joppa would suffer in the conflict, and Joppa was his home.
No, the witches had to have told the truth. They had to succeed here. Far more than a marriage was at stake. Had the vengeful Thetis foreseen the chaos that Andromeda's death would eventually create? If so, she was subtly having her revenge on the entire city while seeming to threaten only one member of its royal family.
Well, the gods might be immortal, but they're not all-seeing, he thought. Perseus had outwitted the Stygian Witches. There was a chance he might do the same with the Gorgon.
The riders had dismounted and unpacked their gear. Philo took charge of the mounts, led them to the nearby vegetation where they cropped contentedly at the lush foliage, unaware of the troubles vexing their masters.
Bubo sat on Thallo's pommel, ticking away smoothly. The little owl was far more than a simple device for providing advice and instruction, Thallo knew. Its presence was a sign that not all the gods wished the destruction of Perseus, Andromeda, and Joppa. He wished he'd been given Perseus's gift of making sense of its jumble of clicks, whistles, and hoots.
It was speaking to Perseus now. Thallo watched in wonder until the grim-faced prince rejoined them.
"Bubo says he cannot come with me. He is restrained from accompanying anyone to the Isle."
"Why?" asked Menas.
"He says that if he visits the Isle of the Dead his own life will stop. I do not completely understand, but apparently his life force is not as flexible as our own. That which drives him would stop if he were to go that close to the underworld. He will have to stay here and wait with you, Thallo. He can't go along."
From its resting place, the owl buzzed sadly.
"Well, I know something that does have to go along." He fumbled at his purse. "Here. You'll need this."
Perseus accepted the four silver coins, jingled them in his hand. "Thanks, my friend. Money's the last thing I thought we'd use on this quest."
"For Charon, the ferryman," Thallo explained. "If he'll carry you. You won't outwit him, but his price is well known. Unless you'd rather swim, that is."
"I've no desire to travel with him," was Perseus's reply, "but the River Styx is no place for a swimmer to lose his way, and we don't know in which direction the Isle of the Dead lies. We'll offer him his due, and hope our unusual 'state' doesn't put him off."
Turning, he started off through the reeds, accompanied by Castor, Menas, and Solon. Thallo and Philo watched them depart.
"May the gods go with them," Philo muttered sadly, securing the last of the horses to a dead stump selected for that purpose.
"Nay." Thallo shook his head and gazed unrepentingly skyward. The heavens remained dull gray. "Let the gods stay out of this. I'm of the same mind as that babbling old poet. They've caused us enough trouble as it is. Why can't they be content with their own squabbles without always poking into the affairs of mortals?"
Philo looked nervous. "Hush, Thallo. One may overhear you."
"Let them hear me, then. Sooner or later we all travel down the River Styx, and soldiers sooner than most. What good's a man's life if he can't guide his own destiny?"
"Who says he can't?" Philo gestured toward the nearby lake. "Perseus is doing just that."
"A good point, my friend. Which is why I wish the gods would stay out of it. I have much confidence in Perseus. In the goodwill of the gods I have none."
It seemed more like the sea than a river to the four marchers when they eventually reached its shore. But the River of the Dead has no hard and fast dimensions. It can appear broad as an ocean one time, narrow as a creek the next. At the moment, it chose to look like an endless expanse of mist and water.
Save for that sense of endlessness and the perpetual fog that clung to it, there was nothing extraordinary about the place. The surface of the water was calm, peaceful. Yet despite the profusion of growth inland, no reed protruded above the surface. No water striders skated in its shallows, no frog called gruffly, no fish cracked the broad expanse of gray.
It was quite appropriately, Perseus thought as he surveyed the serene waterscape, dead calm.
To left and right high cliffs emerged from the shore. Somewhere ahead of them across the water rose the barren crags of the Isle of the Dead. Somewhere in the center of the lake river/state of mind.
A narrow beach of dark sand formed a line between shrubbery and water. It was along this that the four marchers made their cautious way.
Legend told Perseus what to search for. Even so, though the instrument looked like an ordinary hunting horn, he hesitated to unhook it from its tree limb. The antler it had been carved from was unfamiliar to any of them.
His companions divided their attention between their young leader and the surface of the lake. Calm it was and calm it remained, but they had no way of knowing what loathsomeness lurking in those depths might soon choose to satisfy its curiosity about the unnaturally animate shapes stalking the shore.
Finally Perseus took down the horn. A single length of black chain fastened it to the branch. The branch had grown round in a spiral so that the chain could not be slipped off.
He touched the mouthpiece to his lips. Nothing happened; he was not struck dead. The mouthpiece was nothing more than a mouthpiece, though extraordinarily cold to the touch.
He took a breath and tried to blow a single clear, unwavering note. The sound that issued from the horn was clear, but broken and discordant, the wail of something rising out of nightmare.
It faded into the fog, lingering eerily. To make certain their call was heard, Perseus forced himself to blow the horn a second time.
Evidence that it had indeed been noted soon materialized out of the mists: the boat was long and narrow, occupied by a single figure clad in black cloak and hood.
"Charon," said Menas softly.
"For once I could do with a surprise," Solon said, and his hand tightened on his sword.
Noticing the reflexive movement, Perseus said urgently, "Hands away from weapons, Solon. We confront no mortal here. You cannot slay the dead."
The boat was as black as its master and boasted a massive figurehead at the prow consisting of the antlers of an elk that had not trod the earth for thousands of years. Castor remarked on their eight-foot spread as they moved toward the slowing craft.
It touched gently against the land. The hooded steersman waited patiently in the stern as the four boarded. No words were spoken.
Perseus exchanged looks with his companions, then steeled himself and walked to the stern. He held out the silver.
The hand that accepted the coins was bare of flesh, as was the skull that grinned out at him from beneath the black hood.
Keeping his attention on the spectral fig
ure, Perseus moved backward, almost tripping over one of the many benches. The wind whistled through the brush on shore . . . or it might have been a laugh.
Charon turned and leaned on his pole. Effortlessly, he pushed free of the soft mud enfolding the keel. The boat turned about and started out into the lake.
XI
The fog nestled close around the boat and particularly its passengers, but never seemed to touch the ferryman. It would curl around a man's body and then pull sharply away, as though it found the living form unworthy of additional caressing.
Perseus took up a position in the bow, tense and fearful, but at the same time shaking with anticipation. They were entering a realm unknown to the living and visited only briefly by the dead on their way to the underworld.
Eventually a rocky beach emerged from the fog. Perseus had tried to mark their course. It seemed as though they'd traveled in a straight line, but with the fog concealing everything it was impossible to be certain.
Several large openings blotched the cliffs that rose from the beach. The boat grounded on the submerged bottom. Perseus looked back, saw the ferryman pointing with a skeletal hand toward the cave directly in front of them.
"Can it know where we wish to go?" Menas whispered.
"Maybe. Maybe all the living who come this way want to go that way," Castor suggested.
Perseus stepped out of the boat. The water was cool on his sandaled feet. "We'll go as he indicates, but slowly. If it seems unpromising or dangerous, we'll try another cave." He turned and leaned back to study the sheer cliffs ringing the beach. "There doesn't seem to be any way inland except through the caves."
The others disembarked. His boat again empty, the ferryman leaned hard on his pole and turned to head back out into the mist in search of another cargo.
It was neither day nor night on that beach: a curious in-between illumination lighted the island. The interior of the cave they cautiously entered was lit from above.
"It leads inward," said Menas, indicating the sandy floor, "and see how it slopes upward as well."
"Better up than down in this place," said Castor with a grunt.
The cave was lined with cut stone, though by what hands they had been shaped and placed none could imagine. Tombs of unbelievable antiquity opened from side passages off of the main tunnel. Their architecture and style suggested use by creatures other than men.
"Remember always," Perseus reminded his companions as they ascended, "that we go to confront a Gorgon. One look from her is enough to finish you.
"If we have to watch her, we must use the inside of our shields like mirrors. That's why I ordered all the leather linings removed. A reflective surface may prove your only salvation. Her mirror image can't harm you, but never look directly at her."
"A difficult way to fight," muttered the nervous Castor. "Backwards."
"Yes," Perseus admitted, "but preferable to being dead. Better than spending eternity here as a piece of sculpture!"
Menas tried to show a confidence he didn't feel. "We're still four against one. No matter how ugly she is, or how dangerous her gaze, she is no warrior." He pulled his sword and swung it backhand. It hissed through the air.
"Four swords and one is enough to kill. We've heard nothing to say that she's invulnerable like the Kraken. For all the tales I've heard, I'm still not sure I believe—"
"You'd best start believing, Menas," Perseus cut in, pointing at the floor just ahead. "Look there."
They hurried forward. Menas put up his sword and began using his hands to move sand. The arm this digging exposed was beautifully detailed. It was also solid rock, and it ended at the shoulder.
Menas lifted it, passed it over to Solon.
"Not bad," said the soldier, "but I've seen better work in the streets of Corinth."
"You think it a sculpture?" Perseus gasped.
"I didn't say that." Solon sounded defensive. "It's only that we can't be sure of this legend yet. Whoever lives here and passes herself off as 'Medusa' might be an outlaw or banished queen seeking refuge. What safer place than the Isle of the Dead? A few pieces of broken statuary scattered about like this would be enough to frighten off any pursuit bold enough to get this far."
"No farther than that rationalization," said Castor.
"We'll see." Solon dropped the stone arm as Perseus signaled them forward. Together the four headed onward, leaving the arm behind.
"Human?" Menas wondered aloud, gazing back to the resting place of the bodiless limb.
Perseus shrugged. "Who knows?"
We will, and soon, he told himself.
The cave finally opened onto a treeless plain bordered by cliffs. A badly damaged but still imposing temple stood alone at its center. It was as quiet here as it had been on the Styx, though the fog was just a little lighter.
Perseus headed for the building, the others close by. Mist drifted among the thick marble columns and along a wide staircase that fronted the building. As they started upward, the mist began to play about their feet.
Something made a noise on their left. They froze, swords and shields ready, hearts nearly so.
What slithered out from the depths of the temple to momentarily caress the head of a broken statue was unusual only because of its size. The great constrictor ignored them as it slithered down to the ground and off into the fog.
The men relaxed a little. "I've seen them nearly as large in the southern provinces of the Nile," Menas informed them. "Nothing magical about a snake, even one so big. It saw us and ran.
"It did nothing of the sort," Solon countered. "It went its own intended way, and lucky we are not to have been in its path or to have caught it hungry."
"Enough talk of appetites," Castor grumbled at them. "Just now I've none of my own and I don't like this talk of tempting something else's."
The snake did not return and they saw no others as they entered the temple. The ceiling was cracked in places but the columns supporting it looked strong enough. Moss grew in cracks and in places on the marble where water trickled down, indifferent to any sanctity that might have once inhabited this place. Now it was home only to the smell of death.
But the men had long since resolved they would not be defeated by smells or signs. Solon was climbing another set of stairs when the rock he'd been pulling at suddenly tumbled over and fell past him.
The rock turned out to be a statue of a warrior hunched over in a contorted, unnatural position. The sculpture fell to the floor and shattered, its head bouncing to a stop near Perseus's feet.
He glanced down at it and quickly decided not to call the others over to look. The expression on the statue's face could not do their confidence any good.
They stood listening while the sound of the crash echoed around the temple, eventually fading off into silence.
"That should be enough to wake the dead," muttered Solon.
"It's not the dead we're concerned with," Perseus reminded him. Then his head jerked forward. "Wait—hear that?"
Castor's fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Nothing . . . no, wait, I hear it. Chains, I think. Someone dragging chains."
Perseus took a cautious step backward. His gaze traveled to the empty spaces overhead. "Watch for nets. This is no place to be trapped."
But the threat was not from above. The rattling gradually grew louder, and from somewhere ahead came a low cough that might have been an incipient growl.
In the darkness ahead and to one side, a pair of eyes suddenly appeared. Almost immediately they were joined by a second pair. The growling was definite now.
Perseus and the others slowly started backing away. The eyes seemed to follow them. They glowed brightly in the darkness, four eerie little lanterns.
The eyes vanished, but the sounds of metal dragging across rock did not. Perseus turned to his right, trying to keep the source of the sound within view.
Then a sudden, concussive roar exploded from one side and he found himself thrown across the floor as something he
avy, warm and unyielding slammed into his ribs.
As he rolled over and over on the pavement, fighting to regain his breath and keep from falling on his own sword, he heard a scream. Instantly he was back on his feet, ready to challenge whatever had charged them.
It was restrained by a long chain which allowed it only enough range to cover the staircase they'd been climbing. At first Perseus thought it was a wolf—the largest he'd ever seen.
But there had been four eyes. Were there two of them?
Then the creature moved farther out into the light and revealed itself. The monster was indeed a wolf far larger than a man. But there was only one. It had two heads.
One was snapping and probing at the screaming, frantically twisting body of Menas that it held pinned under a huge foot. Throat-hunting, Perseus knew. Castor lay groaning in pain nearby, one arm laid open by the teeth of the second set of jaws.
Shock faded quickly as Perseus and Solon rushed to Menas's aid. By now the head had hold of the unfortunate soldier's arm and had nearly chewed it through. The other head glared at the approaching men.
"Watch the feet," Perseus yelled at his companion, "as well as the teeth!"
They darted in as close as they dared, staying just out of reach of those snapping jaws. But the wolf-thing was quick and they cut no more than fur. Meanwhile the moans of pain from poor Menas were fading rapidly as the second head made a meal of him.
"Get in closer!" Perseus yelled to his companion. "We've got to get close to it!"
Solon tried, barely throwing himself clear as powerful jaws snapped inches from his neck. The wolf was unexpectedly agile for its great size, and Solon could not distract it long enough for Perseus to strike a solid blow or pull Menas free.
For Menas it no longer mattered. His wounds were massive. But Perseus and Solon had troubled the monster to the point where it was now angry enough to devote its full attention to them.
One head dug deeply into Menas's body. The soldier was unconscious and did not scream. The powerful neck twisted up and over, and the man was thrown high over the wolf's back. There was a distinct crack as the limp form struck the marble floor.
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