The Face of Apollo

by Fred Saberhagen

  "Truth, great Far-Worker? The simple truth is that you will be dead."

  "Here I am," said Apollo simply, spreading out Jeremy's boyish-looking arms.

  The dark shape nodded, shifted. "Perhaps, Sun God, you count the death of Death a few days ago as a great victory. You sent his mask into the earth, but I can bring it out again. A new avatar of Thanatos will step forward, and you should be warned that it will make little difference to you; you and your friends will still be subject to death."

  The Lord of Light was unperturbed. "So will everyone else."

  "Not I. I am surprised that you value your own life so lightly. The body you have chosen to wear this time looks a poor one, and inadequate."

  "Not so feeble that you can knock it down with words. Here I am, standing in it. What do you intend?"

  There came a grating sound that might have been a laugh. Even the Lord of the Silver Bow had better beware of this op­ponent. Others might have been fearful, but not Hades. Yes, even the Far-Worker, and even had he still been possessed of his full strength. The Lord of Light was not all that he had once been, as the history of his last visit to this Cave showed, and certain vague but terrible memories warned .. .

  And Jeremy's vague opponent bowed in mockery. "Here all the ways lie open before you. Let us see what your new avatar is able to accomplish."

  Apollo had nothing to say to that, and Jeremy knew that at last the time had come to unsling his captured bow.

  He noted without surprise that his hands, however human and puny they might be, handled the weapon with easy familiarity.

  And he noted once more, with cool regret, how mediocre, not to say poor, were its materials and workmanship. No Silver Bow, this, but it would have to do. Unhurriedly he reached back into the quiver and drew and nocked against the bowstring one of the dead bandit's knobby arrows—the first three fingers of young Jeremy Redthorn's right hand, curling themselves around the string, seemed to know precisely what had to be done next, even if his conscious mind did not.

  Twenty-Six

  Hades had retreated, for the moment, without Jeremy or the Intruder even getting a good look at him. But the Intruder already knew their enemy well, and Jeremy needed no advice from his partner to know that their problems were not over.

  The thought now dominant in Jeremy Redthorn's conscious­ness might have been entirely his own: We are going to be tested.

  There sounded a clatter of rocks under clumsy feet. Here, scrambling and stumbling about in nervous eagerness, came a dozen human skirmishers, those calling themselves Guardians of the Oracle. They claimed to serve the Gatekeeper and to protect all pilgrims, but Apollo knew with certainty that they were the people who had taken Katy—and they were in the service of Hades.

  The first guardians to react to Apollo/Jeremy's intrusion were all male and lacking any common insignia or uniform. They ap­peared to be a mixed bag indeed. Two or three of them, in the In­truder's judgment, looked the part of competent warriors, professionally equipped and moving with the air of men who knew their business. But all the rest were poorly armed, wielding mere sticks and knives, and not dressed for the part at all. Their movements were uncertain. Obviously they had been hastily summoned from other duties and pressed into service. Mixed groups of such men were assembling, more slowly than their leaders would have liked, out in front of the Cave, with their vanguard close inside its mouth. Some had been pressed into service from the attendants outside, while others came moving up out of the earth in advance of their dread master.

  Jeremy had the feeling that the Intruder was not impressed by the quality of the opposition so far; his forward progress neither slowed nor hastened.

  Someone running by in haste toppled the tripod of the pythoness; she had already disappeared. Torch flames swayed in the flow of air generated by human movement. The noncom­batants who fled turned back to watch as soon as they had reached what they judged was a safe distance. Quite possibly they are wrong about that, Apollo's memory assured his human partner.

  The half-dozen prisoners intended for sacrifice who had sud­denly found themselves no longer on sale had evidently been shocked out of their drugged lassitude by the experience, for they had all disappeared when Jeremy looked back; he supposed they were climbing toward the surface and some of them could get clean away.

  Instead of rounding up the prisoners again, their guards had turned their backs on the wrecked and splintered cages and now formed the nucleus of Apollo's opposition. Someone in charge of Underworld operations here on the surface had been suitably impressed by the progress so far of the lean youth with the par­ticolored hair.

  With Apollo's concurrence, Jeremy took a moment to adjust the position of the two packs and the quiver on his back, where in his anger they seemed weightless.

  Now, with his borrowed bow of mediocre quality clutched firmly in his left hand, he stepped across the unmarked thresh­old of the entrance and warily set his booted feet on the de­scending path.

  Rage still burned in him, too huge and active a force to leave room for much in the way of fear.

  And almost immediately, rage found its next object.

  On the trail ahead, and also flanking the trail on both sides, Je­remy's left eye made out bright-rimmed shadows, advancing furtively through the thick gloom. Human figures, much like those he had just seen mobilized on the surface. Human, or something close to human, armed, many bearing shields, wear­ing helms and partial armor, and intent on his destruction.

  Among them were several specimens of a type of enemy only just recognizable, not familiar, even to Apollo. These were ape­like creatures, hairy and shambling. Naked zombies, dropping their dung when they walked, like animals. Jeremy's god-companion was surprised to see such creatures this near the sur­face of the earth.

  When the most aggressive of them slung a stone at him, Apollo's right hand came up—before its original owner had begun to react at all—and caught the missile in midair, with a meaty but quite painless impact. In the next moment a flick of the wrist returned the projectile to its sender, faster than his sling had sent it. Jeremy saw the small rock glance off a dodging fig­ure and knock it down.

  Five seconds later, he loosed his first arrow, again almost with­out having made any conscious decision. Drawing and releasing were accomplished in a single fluid motion, delayed until the precise moment when two of the advancing foe were lined up, one behind the other. The first arrow, broad-bladed and meant for hunting, darted away at invisible speed, taking its first target precisely where the bowman's left eye had focused, in the small space between his heavy leather belt and armored vest. At a range of no more than a dozen yards, the shaft penetrated com­pletely, pushing the broad hunting point through layers of cloth­ing, skin and muscle and guts, and out again through the man's back. The primary target let out an unearthly cry and fell, his fingers clutching uselessly at the place where the feathered end of the arrow had disappeared into his paunch.

  Scarcely deflected by some contact with hard bone, the dart sped on, to bury half its length in the neck of another trooper who had been climbing close behind the first. Another of Apollo's enemies who moved in human shape was down.

  But Jeremy's quiver now held only five arrows more. The fin­gers of his and Apollo's right hand, reaching back behind his head, counted them, making sure, before he drew another out.

  He killed repeatedly; he dodged more missiles. He caught and hurled back another stone, swiftly nocked another arrow, and killed again. Sliding silently away when his two-legged foemen managed to work their way too near him—he was willing to let them live, if they would let him pass—with unerring skill drop­ping one after another of those who remained in his way, Jeremy successfully fought his way through the monster's advance guard of humans.

  Eventually a slung stone caught him in the left shoulder, when he was unable to dodge two in the same instant. But on his magically strengthened flesh the impact, which would ordinarily have broken bone, was no worse than a pu
nch from a small boy's fist. Moments later an arrow hit him in the back, and then an­other, but both bounced off, after delivering no more than gen­tle taps.

  Reaching back a hand, Jeremy could feel that only two of his own arrows were now left in the quiver. But he had no quarrel with Apollo's evident intention of going on.

  Farther down would be the room in which today's sacrifice had been exposed, to await the pleasure of the Lord of the Un­derworld, or such creatures as he might allow to accept it in his name.

  The room Jeremy was in now, like many of the others, was cluttered with stalactites and stalagmites. Rock formations of­fered good cover, especially in the near-darkness.

  Though Jeremy sought cover in shadows as well as behind rocks, he knew deep darkness was his enemy and sunlight his friend—such little sunlight as came this far into the Cave, filtered and reflected.

  A few of Hades's fallen warriors had been carrying bow and arrows also—most fighters would choose a different weapon for close work in bad lighting—and Jeremy/Apollo, stalking from one body to another, stooping and taking when no live enemy threatened, was able to replenish his armament. He obtained three usable shafts from the quiver of one of his victims, five from another. Already he had noticed that it seemed to matter lit­tle how true the arrows were, how sharp or broad their heads. They carried death with them, unerringly, when the Far-Shooter willed that they do so.

  Soon those of the Enemy's human allies who were still on their feet had withdrawn into the depths, leaving half a dozen of their number, who would fight no more, on the Cave floor. There was some light down there, because their human eyes needed some to see.

  Methodically, Jeremy stalked on, going to the next chamber farther down.

  Somewhat worried by Jonathan's prolonged absence, the Scholar had moved forward to a position no more than about fifty yards from the Cave's main entrance. There Arnobius had climbed a tree, establishing himself in a good position to overlook whatever might be happening at the portal. He had settled himself on a limb of comfortable thickness, some fifteen feet above the ground. At this height he had an easy view downhill, overlook­ing lower growth.

  From that vantage point the Scholar considered the situation. During various cycles of enthusiasm, some lasting for centuries, parties of pilgrims from places far and near had come to visit this consecrated spot and had worn a network of paths among the nearby trees. Those who sought help from the Oracle had been coming here for centuries. The business of pilgrimages had re­cently started to boom again, after a long decline.

  So, this was it, the world's most famous site of prophecy. As one who had been much interested in the gods and their history, the Scholar might well have been here before, under conditions far more peaceful. As far back as Arnobius could remember, the thought of coming to the Oracle had tempted him. But always it had seemed that he was unready, unworthy, his preparations in­complete.

  Over the last few months the Oracle had rapidly acquired, in the popular mind, a close association with Apollo, for it was widely said to be the place where the god had died.

  Arnobius wasn't entirely sure what to make of the human hangers-on and parasites at the mouth of the Cave, who were ev­idently pretending to be in charge of the Oracle.

  After observing for a little while what went on at the entrance, he thought to himself: Even though the real power lies far below, in the Underworld, and well they know it, they try to exact a toll from all who approach. If a strong party refuses to pay, the atten­dants do not press the point.

  He wondered whether they had any control over what prophe­cies were made. How much did Hades, their master, interest him­self in such matters? Maybe, the Scholar thought, they were as legitimate as any set of humans in this place could be. Only try­ing to make a living—of course they would prefer to make a damned good living, if that were possible. But all prophecies now were fraudulent, without exception.

  Once, a long time ago, he supposed that things had been much different here. Now, all was in the hands of opportunists. He'd heard they kept on hand a half-demented woman with the abil­ity to go into convincing trances on demand, a performance that satisfied the usual pilgrims.

  Arnobius considered that his father was certainly not the only powerful warlord who would dearly love to be able to secretly control the prophecies given to his enemies. In fact, Lord Victor would probably care less than most about having such control. But Lord Victor was one of many chieftains who would all give a great deal to be in charge here—but at the same time many of these powers were reluctant to become too closely entangled in the affairs of the Oracle.

  But as far as the Scholar knew, no useful prophecies had issued from this oracle for a long time. Probably whatever power had used to make them had been for a long time dead or disabled.

  And of course the presence of Cerberus and other horrors in­side the Cave was a powerful deterrent to at least some of the ad­venturers who would otherwise have swarmed in eagerly, seeking power and treasure.

  Arnobius was beginning to be convinced that all human at­tempts to understand the gods were doomed to failure. People, now, were a different matter. Much more comprehensible. And amenable to being controlled.

  He was disturbed about what Jonathan might stir up in his mad intrusion of the Cave. Even the newly cynical Arnobius, as he watched, began to be impressed by the approach to this particular Oracle.

  He wondered if the place below had really been the site of a deadly battle between two gods. Paradoxically, now that he was actually here, the whole business of gods and magic seemed dis­tant, hard to believe in at all.

  Conversely, practical political and military matters seemed to stand out in his mental vision as solidly as the Mountain itself. He wondered why it had taken so long for him to discover his own considerable natural talent in those fields.

  Ferrante had come with him, and the Scholar soon sent the young soldier off to scout.

  "I'm concerned that Jonathan will get into some kind of trou­ble, do something foolish. If you find him, tell him to get back here at once."

  "What about the girl, sir?"

  "Well—tell her also if you see her." He raised a hand to hold the sergeant in place for one more order. "On second thought, tell her she can go home now if she wants to. Perhaps that would be best for her."

  When Sergeant Ferrante had saluted and moved away, Arnobius resumed his contemplation of the scene below. He began to wonder whether one of the people near the Cave en­trance might spot him in his tree, and this led him to reflect upon the kind of clothing he was now wearing. Glancing down at him­self, his clothing, the Scholar took note of the fact that over the last few days, since being ambushed by bandits, he'd more or less fallen into a style of dress very far from the academic.

  It hadn't been a matter of trying to imitate the military or, in­deed, of any conscious decision. But given the kind of business in which he was now engaged, there were certainly practical rea­sons for strapping on weapons, wearing a broad-brimmed, chin-strapped hat, a plain coat with many pockets, and sturdy footgear.

  Another newly discovered need nagged at the Scholar: as soon as he had the chance, he intended to learn the fine points of using weapons; the next opponent he met in that way was liable to be much more formidable than a demoralized bandit already poisoned by bee stings. The further use of sword and spear was not something he looked forward to; it was just something that had to be done, and he had learned that one could not always count on having skilled subordinates around to handle it.

  All in all, the Scholar had been forced into a new way of look­ing at the world. Somewhat to his own surprise, he found himself quite well suited to it, possessed of a latent ability to inspire oth­ers to follow him. It seemed he had that, though until very re­cently he'd never needed or wanted to put it to use. The young men had been quite willing for him to lead them into combat. Except for a few like Jonathan—

  Was that Jonathan, striding toward the entrance? Certainly the
lone figure seemed taller than Arnobius's servant, and it did not move with a menial's walk. But there was that red-black hair. And here now, disposing of all doubts, came Sergeant Ferrante, perfectly recognizable, in awkward and tentative pursuit.

  Turmoil below, around the Cave mouth, interrupted the watcher's train of thought. Arnobius didn't know what to make of it, at least at first. Some of the words being shouted below car­ried to his ears, but at first they made no sense.

  One word that he heard shouted was: "Apollo!" And another, in the language of Kalakh, was: "Mobilize!"

  Suddenly it crossed the Scholar's mind to wonder whether the people down there might actually be convinced that his servant Jonathan was, in fact, an avatar of the god Apollo.

  Arnobius was pondering the ramifications of this when his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden feeling, apparently cause­less but far too strong to be ignored, that he was no longer alone. Turning his head without any special haste, Arnobius first glanced down at the foot of the tree—no one was there. Then he turned to look behind him.

  Sitting on an adjacent branch, only little more than an arm's length distant, was a slender figure wearing what looked like a comic actor's stage mask and a simple sexless costume, loose blouse and trousers of conservative cut and drab color, set off by a pair of bright red Sandals. At first glance it was plain to the Scholar that his visitor had to be a god or goddess, because no mere human could possibly have come to occupy that place in undetected silence.

  A long moment passed while mortal and deity contemplated each other in silence. The shaded eyes behind the jester's mask appeared to be studying Arnobius intently. The apparition had assumed its place so simply and naturally that so far the Scholar felt himself remarkably calm; it was as if he had known all his life that sooner or later he would have some clear and unambiguous confrontation with divinity.

  At last, having taken in the details of the other's appearance, he cleared his throat and said with certainty: "You are the Trick­ster."