Clash of the Titans

by Alan Dean Foster

  But it did not seep through the cloth of crimson protected by the power of the crystal eye borrowed from the Stygian Witches.

  The floor of the grotto was turning into a steaming inferno as blood from the headless corpse bubbled away the marble and steamed away the waters of the ritual pool. He started to recover his own shield, only to discover that a thick stream of the venomous liquid was flowing between it and his present position. It was wide and shallow, too broad for him to jump. The base of the shield was already dissolving into the corrosive fluid.

  A face that had spoken to him once before, in the amphitheater outside Joppa, reappeared now in that dimly lit surface.

  "Go now," the voice directed him. "Tomorrow is the eve of the longest day. Go, and swiftly,"

  Perseus needed no additional urging. As the marble continued dissolving, ancient columns began to groan dangerously. The blood was threatening to undermine the entire temple complex. Any second now it might come crashing down on him and all his hopes. He'd not come this far and accomplished this much to lose it all in a simple rockfall.

  Holding the precious prize under one arm and his sword in the other, he turned and raced for the staircase.

  Behind him, the face in the shield impassively watched his retreat until the metal vanished in the river of blood.

  Whether the souls of the many murdered and petrified by Medusa had ever found rest, Perseus had no way of knowing, but at least now their bodies were returned to the earth. Blood lapped at their bases, stone hissed and was vaporized. The ritual pool was now mother to a cloud of crimson steam.

  Groans and creaks sounded louder as Perseus emerged from the entrance to the underground grotto and raced down the temple steps. Moments later he was once more outside the temple. The thick fog and desolate terrain of the Isle of the Dead were like the clean sea air of Seriphos compared to the interior of that unholy structure.

  As he neared the entrance of the cave they'd used to reach the temple, the rumblings behind him increased in volume. A loud lingering roar sounded behind him and he glanced back over his shoulder.

  Marble dust thickened the sky as the temple roof collapsed. Great columns that had stood for unknown years toppled to the earth like felled trees. Then the walls tumbled inward with a last, echoing crash.

  For several moments the dust-laden mist obscured everything. When it finally cleared, only the broad staircase remained, leading up to a pile of rubble. A dull red stain was spreading slowly over the ruin, and blood still seethed and bubbled somewhere inside.

  Soon that liquid virulence too would be exhausted, and the lair of Medusa would be only a memory—one that Perseus would carry with him forever.

  If he did not hurry though, forever would end sometime tomorrow night, on the coast of Joppa.

  He turned and ran down the sandy slope of the tunnel.

  XII

  The beach they'd landed on was deserted and unchanged. Fog still cloaked the shoreline and tiny wavelets broke on the sand with a muffled splash.

  For a terrified moment Perseus felt the real world had deserted him, that it no longer existed. There was no shore across the lake/river, no land to reach. He would swim for days until his strength finally gave out. Then he would sink, only to rise again as Charon plucked him from the waters to convoy him once more back to the Isle of the Dead. There he would enter a different tunnel, one leading to the final, eternal place of rest far below the earth. He would never know the fate of his beloved.

  Nonsense! He shook the groundless fear from his thoughts.

  Refastening the sword to his belt, he took a firm grip on the tightly bound bundle (he could not bear to grip it in his teeth) and plunged into the tepid water, swimming hard for the reality he remembered.

  His greatest worry now was that he would become disoriented in the mists and swim in circles. Even if he'd possessed another piece of silver, it wouldn't matter. Charon ferried passengers in only one direction.

  As Perseus swam he tried not to think of what might inhabit the waters around him. Gradually he began to tire; it was a long swim, even for an experienced swimmer like himself. Finally, he was almost longing for the sight of the skeletal boatman and his cargo of dead souls when his hand unexpectedly encountered something hard.

  Drawing back with a jerk, he almost let loose of the bundle clutched tightly in his other hand. Something long and curved leaned toward him through the water.

  That's all then, he thought wildly. I'm finished. Medusa's dead body has come searching for its head.

  Then the water and the fatigue cleared a little and he saw that it was only a thick root, gnarled but not scaly. He slumped in the water, hoping there would be no more surprises.

  One hand grasped the familiar shape and he pulled himself under the arch of the great root. There were others to be negotiated, but they grew steadily smaller. His feet touched bottom. There was no describing the feeling of relief that went through him at that first muddy contact.

  Soon he was again on dry land. He lay sprawled on naked rock, his eyes drinking in the sight of bullrushes and water weeds around him. Tantalus's shoulders could not have throbbed worse and his arms were lengths of chain hanging limply down.

  He rested for a while, gathering strength. Then he rose and called briskly. No reply. Not even echoes could live on that shore.

  Left or right, he mused. It seemed he must have drifted south, but no . . . he thought to check the water. The current did indeed push southward. Therefore he should go to his right.

  He started off in that direction, still dripping wet since there was no sunshine to dry him, shivering from more than just cold.

  There was no dramatic reunion when he finally stumbled back into the camp: Thallo and Philo were seated by a fire, wondering about the possibility of a storm, and Perseus simply stepped through the reeds into the clearing.

  Thallo rose immediately and walked over to greet him. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Thallo looked past the exhausted Perseus, hesitated, finally looked back into the younger man's face.

  Perseus shook his head slowly.

  "All of them?" Philo looked up from beside the fire.

  "Medusa." Perseus walked over to the old tree which overhung the clearing and searched through the supplies stacked there. Finding the length of rope he wanted, he used it to secure the damp bundle to a branch. It swung gently in the rising breeze. Then he returned and collapsed next to the fire, drying himself and gnawing on a piece of dried meat as he spoke.

  "She won't kill any more good people," he said tightly. "Her temple's destroyed . . . I thought I'd never make shore . . . and the temple's guardian with it. A monster wolf-dog with two heads that we had to kill before we found her. It killed Menas."

  "Dioskilos," murmured Thallo. "I've heard legends of such. And you slew it as well as the Gorgon?"

  Perseus nodded. "Almost lost Castor to it as well." His voice dropped. "As it turned out, it didn't matter."

  "Three good soldiers." Thallo turned back, looked out across the reeds. "Three good men."

  "Good friends," added the disconsolate Philo. He nodded toward the bundle tied to the tree. "You gained what you came for?"

  "Yes. It still bleeds. Don't touch it."

  "No worry of that," said Philo fervently.

  A rumble of thunder reached down from above and lightning made the fog glow like a lamp. Thallo put hands on hips and gazed skyward.

  "Curse these mists. I cannot tell if it will rain or not."

  "Zeus is angry," said Philo, "about something." He was setting up the small bronze pot in which they would cook their supper.

  "Zeus is always angry about something." Thallo spat to one side and moved to check on the horses. They stood quietly nearby. "Prince, perhaps we should try to make some distance toward home before nightfall."

  Perseus shook his head and tried to smile. "You would have to tie me to the horse, my friend. I have no more strength." Something whirred at him from the top of a
rock bordering the nearby stream.

  "Yes, my mechanical friend, I know that flesh is weak and metal strong, but I still wouldn't trade with you."

  Bubo hooted once, eyes flashing, and settled back to study the landscape.

  "You'll feel better after a night's sleep and some real food," Thallo assured the younger man. "If we leave before daybreak we can still make Joppa in the time left to us. Even Hercules had to rest from his labors."

  "He couldn't have been more tired than I am." Perseus found a blanket and wrapped it around his still damp body. In minutes, he was sound asleep.

  Philo stirred the contents of the bronze pot. "Should we wake him for supper?"

  "Nay," Thallo said, studying the silent figure in the blanket. "He needs rest now more than food. Well feed him in the morning."

  Thunder sometimes disturbed the peace of the night, but it didn't wake the men. By first light they still slept on, oblivious to Zeus's complaints. Bubo rested on his rock, ticking away somnolently.

  The red bundle swayed gently in the wind. Nearby the water reeds rustled uncomfortably in the rising breeze. Or perhaps they moved because of the muscular figure that walked cautiously among them.

  Calibos had seen Perseus's return to camp. He'd spent this night waiting patiently, as he had for several days. There had been no need to interfere. He was confident Medusa would finish his work for him.

  Now it was clear she had not, and he would have to finish himself what the Gorgon ought to have done. His repeated entreaties to Mother Thetis had been met with silence as he'd followed the expedition out from Joppa.

  When they'd separated back by the lair of the Stygian Witches, he'd been sorely tempted to kill the old man riding with the princess and carry her back to his lair. But that would only have angered Thetis, who had pronounced final judgment.

  In his thirst for revenge he'd inadvertently goaded the goddess into demanding the death of the one love he could not command. Now that the princess's death was ordered, all he could do was insure that her lover did not survive her.

  Perseus lay huddled by the ashes of the dying fire. Somehow the cursed man-child had fooled the old witches into helping him and had slain Medusa.

  Well, he would not find Calibos so easy an opponent, and he would pay him back now for the loss of his hand.

  Moving as quietly as possible, Calibos made his way behind the tree holding the scarlet bundle. Once, the braided whip coiled over his shoulder caught on a projecting branch and he almost cursed aloud before freeing it.

  As he leaned around the trunk of the tree, he used the trident fastened to the stump of his left forearm to brace himself. It was a poor substitute for a hand, but the best he could contrive.

  With a sharp knife he cut a small gash across the bottom of the bundle. The stink that wafted from within assured him that the Gorgon's head had not yet dried out completely.

  No amount of kicks or blows of the whip had been able to compel his swamp servants to make the long march with him. Under no circumstances would they journey beyond the marshlands. He could not hope to defeat three experienced warriors, however, without assistance.

  He permitted himself a slight smile. Perseus was brave and lucky, but he lacked knowledge. Calibos knew all the legends, all the details of the great mysteries. How ironic that the ignorant Perseus should thus provide Calibos with the means of his destruction.

  Yes, there was still a little blood left in the severed head. A few drops fell from the slit fabric to the ground while thunder railed impotently above.

  The mitigating atmosphere of the Isle of the Dead was not present here on the soil of the real world. If the legends were correct . . . yes, the earth where the blood had dripped was beginning to seethe.

  Soon the suppurating soil coaxed forth all manner of wriggling vileness: blood-engorged leeches, swollen maggots, worms with black skin, and tiny agitated scorpions. Of them all, only the fiercest and most lethal would survive to draw on the power of Medusa's blood.

  Backing away, he hid himself behind the tree.

  Quickly, the worms returned to the earth. The leeches melted and the maggots became food for those who remained. Three scorpions began to grow.

  Calibos watched with interest and delight. Another few minutes and it would be too late for the sleeping travelers. He shifted to the other side of the tree in order to have a better view of the end, and thereby stepped on one of the few dry dead twigs in that fog-shrouded land. It cracked like pottery.

  It was a modest noise, most likely lost in the rush of wind and occasional lightning. But it was heard by one whose ears were far more sensitive than those of men.

  Bubo was suddenly alert. His head clicked around to focus on the three arachnids. His eyes spun and flashed as he generated a hoot of alarming dimensions, a mighty clanging the likes of which are not heard outside the metal foundries of Luxor.

  Thallo and Philo came awake instantly and reached for their swords. Perseus was only seconds behind them.

  "Damn you, you unnatural meddler of metal!" Calibos stepped out from behind the tree and uncoiled his whip. Bubo continued to rail away. "You won't interfere again!"

  The whip shot out and snapped violently against the figure clinging to the rock. Bubo was spun off his perch, wings flapping furiously but tardily. Still sounding his alarm, he landed in the stream. His raucous ringing blended into the sound of rising bubbles as he sank.

  "Nothing will save you this time, Calibos," said Perseus, fully awake now. "Not the vermin who serve you, not your immortal half-mother: nothing."

  "It's not I who need saving, bastard. Or have you not looked to your prize?"

  The three men turned, and froze. The three scorpions were now the size of ponies. They ignored the half concealed Calibos and advanced toward the larger cluster of food. The food drew together and readied for the attack.

  "Watch the tails," muttered Thallo, keeping his eyes on the advancing creatures. "They'll hold enough poison to kill instantly."

  "Poison be damned," said Philo. "Those stingers are as big as swords."

  "Easy, easy," Perseus urged his friends, his own sword waiting. "Try to separate them, take them one per man. That way they can't surprise us from behind."

  One scorpion was slightly closer than the others. It snatched at Perseus with a huge claw. He stepped nimbly aside, fended off a strike of that looming tail, and swung his sword. It cut a piece of chiton from one claw and the scorpion jerked back in pain.

  "Now," he yelled, "split them up!"

  Swinging their swords like scythes, Thallo and Philo joined Perseus in the charge. The three scorpions were forced apart, leaving each man with only one opponent to worry about.

  "I'd enjoy watching," Calibos called pleasantly, "but I've other work to do. Do me the pleasure of waiting for my return." He turned away and limped off through the reeds.

  Thallo could hear the sound of the whip cracking behind them. "The horses!" he yelled. "He's driving off the horses!" He ducked and weaved just in time to avoid another strike from a deadly tail.

  There was nothing they could do about their mounts. The monsters continued to press in. Though the three men held them off, none could gain an advantage.

  Enough time wasted on this, thought Calibos finally. I will alter the odds.

  He stepped into the clearing and selected a target. The whip spun, became a noose around Philo's neck. Putting his weight into it, Calibos yanked hard. Philo went backwards to the ground.

  Immediately the scorpion he'd been battling rushed in. The tail hooked and went clear through Philo's body. He screamed and tried to twist free as Calibos methodically drew back his whip.

  Perseus saw what had happened and deliberately stepped close to his own attacker. As the expected pincer reached for him, he cut down. The limb dropped to the earth as the tail descended. That too was severed. Before the monster could back away, Perseus rammed his sword through its head. It buckled like a broken cart.

  Meanwhile Thallo had de
alt with equal success with his own enemy, gradually cutting off bits and pieces of it until it had little left to fight with. He drove home the final blow as something dark and thin tightened around his neck and pulled him backward.

  "Thallo!" Perseus rushed toward him, but found himself intercepted by the scorpion which had killed Philo. Desperately he hacked at it as he watched Thallo being pulled inexorably toward the reeds.

  The old soldier was strong, but the whip choked away his breath. He continued stumbling, his hands trying to pull away the whip, until he impaled himself on the three-pronged weapon which occupied the stump of Calibos's left arm. His eyes widened.

  Calibos withdrew the trident and let Thallo's body slump to the ground. His gaze lifted to Perseus cutting apart the last of Medusa's seed.

  He started toward him. It was nearly finished, he mused happily. Let Thetis pronounce her curse; he would fashion his own revenge. He had the trident and the whip. He would make this last death a lingering one.

  One more thrust finished the scorpion. Perseus pulled the sword clear just in time to ready himself for a more conventional attacker. As he turned the whip snaked around his sword arm and pulled.

  Perseus went down and the sword fell from his grasp. He managed to fight free of the whip, reached for the sword, but something bit into his neck and he went over backwards, twisting in pain.

  "Come on, boy. I've only one hand to fight you with, as well you should recall. Surely you can defeat a tired, ugly, one-handed man. Or even a one-handed beast such as myself." When Perseus did not move, Calibos's tone grew threatening.

  "Come, get up. There's only you left and no one to help you. There's your sword, so close." He cracked the whip at it, sent it skittering across the ground. "Why don't you pick it up? Then you can cut off my other hand and win yourself another bride with it—your first is doomed."

  Perseus clenched his teeth and ignored the taunts. His only concern now was how to regain control of his sword. But every time he tried to rise or move toward it, a hot, searing agony shot through his body and sent him to the ground.