Out of the Waters

by David Drake

  “If it is a mistake,” the Sibyl said musingly. “If it really is.”

  In a businesslike, relatively firm, voice, she went on, “Procron cannot return from his place of exile, but his powers gain him agents in other times. He works to loose Typhon from the place he was bound. Typhon will destroy Atlantis and the Minoi; but he will destroy all things, save Typhon himself.”

  Varus took a deep breath. Members of a family—two families, he realized—were sacrificing at the altar in front of the ancient Temple of Saturn. The heads of house were probably consecrating a marriage contract. They were planning for the future; a future which would not exist, for them or for anyone, unless Gaius Varus prevented an Atlantean sorcerer from freeing the greatest of the Earthborn Giants.

  The Sibyl looked at him and smiled again, this time without the gentle humor she had shown before. “You cannot prevent Procron from loosing Typhon,” she said, responding to Varus’ unvoiced thoughts, “because Typhon is already loose. What you must do is to slay Procron before he does further harm. And you see—”

  Her lined face was suddenly grim, as fearsome as a bolt of lightning.

  “—Procron is no more. His body is dead, and the skull that rules him is in a dimension that nothing human can reach; not even the Sibyl, who once was human and is now the shadow of a great wizard.”

  A small fire smoked on the altar. The families watched in satisfied silence as the priest, his arms lifted, prayed to Saturn … the king of the gods before his son Jupiter supplanted him. Saturn, who presided over the Golden Age, when all men were happy and the world was at peace.

  From the crack in the sky oozed Typhon in hellish majesty: swelling, spreading, devouring all things and crushing all things. Destroying the great buildings of Carce, then destroying the very hills on which the city had been founded. All things for all time—dead and gone.

  “Strong necessity demands—” the Sibyl cried.

  “—that these things be accomplished!” Varus concluded in a thin, cracked voice.

  Candidus turned, frowning as he tried to understand the words. Whatever he saw in his master’s face prevented him from speaking.

  * * *

  CORYLUS FELT THE RAILING grow firm again beneath his gauntleted grip. He breathed a sigh of relief that reminded him of how disconcerted he had been when reality dissolved.

  He wasn’t a good sailor. The way a ship’s deck moved even when it was tied up in harbor affected a part of him beyond the real danger involved. He liked to keep one hand on a rope or, better, the mast or a railing. What was true on water was doubly true on this vessel, floating several hundred feet above the ground.

  Except that the ship was on water, snugged to a bollard in the stern and with the bow anchor hooked into a niche in the quay. They were in Ostia, the old port at the mouth of the Tiber, at one of the berths on the breakwater which Corylus remembered were generally used by small trading vessels from the west. The sunlit stone pavement reeked with the odor of Spanish fish sauce, the residue of decades of jars dropped during unloading.

  The sprite chirped in excitement as she looked around; the Ancient slouched in the stern, much as he had done during the whole voyage. So far things were the same; but this wasn’t the ship they’d boarded in the dream world.

  It was a vessel of the same design, its sails now folded vertical against the mast, but the bits of gear on the deck or hanging from the railing—a painted water jar; leather pouches embroidered with spines of some kind; a broken stone knife with a grip of deer horn—hadn’t been on the ship which they had sailed into the brightness. The deck wasn’t scarred by claws from when the Ancient leaped aboard, but there were nicks and dents which Corylus—who noticed wood—hadn’t seen before.

  Four Servitors stood amidships, as motionless as glass statues.

  He turned to the sprite, but before he could ask a question she bubbled, “This ship brought the magicians from the Western Isles! It must be the only one left, whenever in time this is.”

  She looked thoughtful again. “I wonder if we would have had to stay in the ghost world if this ship had been destroyed along with everything else about Atlantis?”

  The harbor was busy, but a sunken hulk lay in the berth between the Atlantean ship and the end of the quay, and no one was aboard the undecked vessel to sternward except for a cat—which was sleeping. The ship’s arrival would have aroused interest at least from the customs authorities, though, even if the westerners had paddled in on the surface at night.

  Corylus wondered if they had used magic on the officials as they had on Sempronius Tardus, or if they simply paid them off. The latter would have been good enough and had less risk of arousing suspicion. Though the glass men …

  “Cousin?” he said. “Are the Servitors, ah—”

  Alive was the wrong word.

  “—able to move, or is it just the Atlanteans who can make them do that?”

  “Oh, one of the magicians has the key from a Minos,” the sprite said. “His talisman. That’s how they managed to fly the ship, and they use the Servitors too. Though right now—”

  She stepped to the nearest of the four and tapped her finger against the hollow of its ear, a ridged dimple in the smooth skull.

  “—they’ve been ordered to wait unless someone tries to board the ship. You’re all right unless you get off and try to get back on.”

  She looked around again, her enthusiasm waning. “What are you going to do, cousin? There aren’t any trees around here. We should go somewhere that has trees.”

  Corylus sucked in his lips sourly. He didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  He grinned suddenly. Well, I didn’t know I’d be arriving in Ostia until this moment, so I don’t think I’ll flog myself too severely.

  Aloud—to settle his thoughts; neither of his companions could be of the slightest help with the question—he said, “I don’t have money—”

  Pulto had carried his purse.

  “—and I don’t imagine a port hostler will give me mules and a cart on credit, even if I take off this armor.”

  Which I’d better do. Swanning about armed and wearing armor that shines like a bonfire is pretty well guaranteed to bring the attention of the Watch Detachment here in Ostia, not to mention the Praetorian Guard if I somehow reached Carce.

  Corylus took off the helmet and started turning the latches of the breastplate. “I guess,” he said to the sprite, “that I’ll hike into Carce, go to—”

  His apartment or Saxa’s house? The latter, because it was closer to the Ostian Gate where he’d enter the city. The servants knew him as a friend of the family; someone would find him a clean tunic and give him a meal.

  His stomach growled at the thought. He wasn’t starving, but food—a loaf of real bread in place of the bland putty in the ship’s hold—was suddenly his first priority. That too would have to wait till he reached Carce, unless he tried snatching a loaf from a stallkeeper here.

  Unless—

  “Can we fly here, cousin?” he asked. “I mean, now that we’re back in the—”

  What term had she used?

  “—the waking world?”

  “Of course,” the sprite said. “At least if he—”

  She nodded toward the grinning Ancient.

  “—is more powerful than the western magicians. I think he is, but there are three of them.”

  She looked at the open cart which was clattering down the quay toward them behind a pair of mules. One of the magicians who had accompanied Tardus to the theater was driving; the other two were in back with a bundle which squirmed beneath the mat that concealed it.

  Pandareus, trussed but conscious.

  The cart pulled up alongside the ship. The driver was the North African. He slid from his seat, drawing a curved knife. A second magician got out of the back of the wagon, holding an axe with a stone head. The ship floated with its deck almost level with the pavement.

  They’re seeing a ragged stranger wh
om they probably take for a sneak thief, Corylus realized. He bent.

  The westerners glanced at one another to coordinate their attack. They jumped aboard simultaneously, to either side of him.

  As before, Corylus had laid the weapons belt on the deck in order to take off the breastplate. He drew the orichalc sword in the same sweeping curve that sent its tip toward the African. He shouted and managed to twist in the air, reinforcing Corylus’ belief that he had been a sailor.

  The last hand’s-breadth of the blade carved through the fellow’s ribs and lung. Blood droplets sailed from the sword tip and the victim’s mouth spewed a red mist.

  The other westerner was older and less agile, but he chopped with the stone axe while Corylus was off balance. Corylus grabbed the railing with his free hand and jerked himself clear.

  A large chip of wood flew from where the axe struck the deck. The fellow might not be a real warrior, but he was clearly strong and willing.

  Corylus thrust. The orichalc sword didn’t have enough of a curve to make it clumsy. The point entered above the westerner’s breastbone and came out through his spine in the middle of his back. The blade was sharp and as stiff as a granite obelisk.

  Corylus leaped to the quay to finish the business. Too late he saw that the third westerner, the one with a stuffed bird in his hair, was sucking on the stem of his murrhine pipe.

  A puff of smoke wreathed Corylus. His muscles froze and he toppled backward onto the ship.

  The magician sang a short phrase, smoke jetting from his mouth and nostrils with the syllables. Two Servitors reached down to grasp Corylus’ upper arms.

  “Stop them,” the sprite said.

  The Ancient wailed. The sound started high and rose, a jagged edge of sound. The western magician shouted with surprise and leaped toward the ship.

  There was a crack! like nearby lightning. A Servitor vanished in a shower of glittering dust.

  There was a treble crack! All the glass figures were sand and dust finer than sand. The shrilling cry ended. Corylus still couldn’t move.

  The Ancient jumped to the railing. The westerner had teetered to a halt when the Servitors vanished. He blew smoke toward the Ancient and began chanting.

  The Ancient reached out, gripping the magician’s head with both long arms. He twisted sharply.

  There was a muted pop as the victim’s spine parted. The Ancient laughed and hopped onto the deck again.

  Corylus got up. He didn’t need the help of the long, golden-furred arm that the Ancient offered him, but he took it anyway.

  Pandareus, gagged but sitting upright, watched from the back of the cart.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Alphena hadn’t thought she could sleep, but of course she had. This time she must have slept through the herbal smoke when Uktena lit his pipe, but she awakened at last because her skin prickled and the hair stood up on her arms and legs.

  She opened her eyes to a haze of crackling light. It shrouded a form that was not the shaman’s. Then Uktena expelled a final puff of smoke and thrust the pipe stem under his sash.

  Without seeming to notice her, he started up the ladder. Ghosts of his body hung in his wake when he moved. They grew paler and finally dissipated.

  Alphena hadn’t taken off her sandals when she lay down, but she had loosened the laces so that her feet wouldn’t swell uncomfortably during the night. She tightened them now without waste motion and got up to follow. The copper axe was in her hand.

  She couldn’t have described how she felt. She climbed, ignoring the jabs and flashes of numbness where her skin touched the wood which Uktena had touched.

  I don’t feel any way. A thing happened and I am doing a thing in response. The rain falls and the seed sprouts; but the seed feels nothing.

  Clouds piled high in the western sky, red with the light of dawn. Lightning flashed within them, bringing out momentary shades white to dark gray; Alphena heard no thunder.

  She caught up with Uktena. The ground around him popped and sizzled, and he dragged a train of glittering insubstantiality.

  The three sages and some of the villagers watched from the edge of the forest beyond the planted fields. Wontosa’s hair had been repaired with a weave shorn from someone else; the stuffed bird was different, also. He flinched when Alphena looked at him.

  Does he think that I have powers? she wondered. Although—

  She wriggled the axe in her right hand. It wasn’t a magical talisman for her, but it did give her power over such as Wontosa.

  The crystal fortress had already split open. Procron lifted from it, bathed in purple light that hurt Alphena’s eyes. She shaded them with her hand, wishing she had her broad-brimmed hat. She had lost it from the gryphon’s back while battling the Minoi. If she’d been thinking, she could have replaced it as she had the sword which she lost at the same time.

  The sword was important. The hat was not.

  She tried to walk close beside Uktena, but the power spreading from him drove her back like a fierce wind armed with sand grains. Grimacing, squinting, Alphena lowered her eyes and turned her shoulder to the discomfort. Even so, she had to stay twenty feet away from him.

  Uktena probably didn’t notice. He hadn’t paid any attention to her since she awakened.

  They reached the shoreline; Uktena dropped the pipe as before. A gentle wave rolled up the sand. When it touched the shaman’s bare feet, the water disintegrated in hissing sparkles—not steam, though the gleaming motes stung when they touched Alphena’s calf.

  Spreading, swelling, the shaman moved outward. He was no longer Uktena, and she wasn’t sure that he was her friend or even mankind’s friend.

  He’s our defender, though. He’s putting himself between us and our enemy.

  Purple light ripped from the Minos, lashing the shaman and the sea. Water boiled away in a thunderclap, but the huge bulk continued to advance. The protecting white fire partially concealed the creature within, but Alphena could see enough of its writhing immensity to feel sick.

  Clouds filled the eastern sky, coalescing out of clear air as suddenly as vinegar curdles milk. Black and lowering, they rushed toward the shore to meet the cloudbank that hung above the land. The storm broke in full earnest: rain and howling winds bent the tops of pine trees and sent a hut flying out to sea like a huge bird.

  The thing that had been the shaman engulfed Procron despite the unrelenting sheets of purple flame spitting from the diamond skull. The monster had grown to the size of the island from which it came.

  The white glow had dimmed so that Alphena could see clearly what Uktena had become. Some of the heads were of beasts she had never seen before, and some could only be demons.

  Tentacles spread toward the Atlantean. Hissing purple light burned them away, but they regrew and redoubled like the Hydra’s heads.

  Alphena fell to her knees. Windblown rain slashed her, washing away her tears. Like the thousand arms of what had been her friend, more tears sprang from her eyes.

  Inexorably, the monster’s bulk forced Procron back. The painful purple light didn’t slack, but its punishment no longer slowed the advance of what had been the shaman. Where the flame now touched the creature, flesh bubbled and swelled and changed still more horribly, but it continued to crawl on.

  Alphena unlaced her heavy sandals. They would help to wading depth, but she couldn’t swim in them. She would be ready.…

  Procron burst upward from the encirclement. He began to accelerate like a dropping stone. A hundred tentacles rose and snatched him down. They stripped him of his armor the way a cook shells a crayfish, flinging away the gleaming bits. Even under a storm-covered sky, the fragments shone like the tears of the sun.

  The fight is over.

  Procron suddenly blazed with shimmering violet energy. The gripping tentacles shrivelled and dropped away.

  The Atlantean hung shimmering in the air for a moment. As fresh arms reached for him, he flung himself back into his spire.

  The monster surge
d forward like the tide driven in by a storm. The doors at the top of the fortress slapped closed like the shell of a clam reacting to danger. What had been the shaman covered the spire and mounded above it.

  How much larger can it grow? How much larger can my friend Uktena grow?

  All the world grew transparent to her eyes. Alphena saw Procron in his crystal spire and saw the fortress in the monster’s swollen body like a pearl in the oyster’s mantle.

  The crystal shifted. It could not break free in space, but it stretched into another dimension; fading, losing color and form, becoming a sparkling ghost of itself.

  The creature made a convulsive movement like a whale swallowing. Even the ghost vanished. Procron and his fortress were cut off forever from Alphena’s world.

  The monster, swelling still greater, trembled. The storm paused, the clouds frozen in place and the winds still.

  Alphena rose to her feet. She shouted, “Uktena! Come back to me, my friend! Come back!”

  The monster slumped toward her like a wall of sand collapsing. She stood with her arms crossed. Heads and tentacles drew into the vast body and the body shrank.

  “My friend!” Alphena shouted.

  Uktena took a step toward her and collapsed into the surf. She thrust the axe helve through her sash and waded out to get him.

  The sea spit light and occasionally stung her flesh like sparks from a bonfire. Uktena’s compact body wobbled on the swell. He was facedown.

  Alphena hurled herself against the water, but her tunic dragged her back. She should have taken it off with the boots before she left the shore.

  The tide was going out. It was taking Uktena with it.

  Alphena untied her sash and snatched the tunic over her head to drop on the waves. The axe was gone also. That didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that she reach Uktena before he drowned. She swam toward him, wishing she had spent more time in the swimming bath even if that meant less at sword practice.

  She didn’t know how long it was before she reached the shaman. He turned his face to breathe, but she wasn’t sure that he noticed her presence. She rolled him onto his back. Kicking and stroking with one arm, she began to return to the shore. The storm was passing, though the wind still whipped froth from the wave tops.