“It is named the Falling Star,” the king told him, “because its strange bright metal fell from the sky. The lame smith who forged it was a very wise man, and he hammered a simple spell into the blade.
“It will guard the freedom of the Greeks, the smith promised me; hew their way to greatness. But it must never be surrendered. For the man who gives it up, yields also his honor and his life.”
Trembling with pride, Theseus swung the blade. It was heavy for his young arm, and the hilt too large for his hand. But he rejoiced in the cold weight of it, and the magical fire that ran along its edge.
“I thank you, father,” he whispered. “I shall never give up the Falling Star. And I shall carry it against the wizardry of Knossos, and fight for the freedom of the Greeks, so long as I can lift it!”
He wept as he embraced his father, and took the heavy sword, and went out into the night. He slipped past the watch fire of the Cretan sentries, climbed by a way he knew down the steep slope of the Acropolis, and ran away through the darkness that lay upon the conquered plain of Attica.
Now, in the mirror of the blade, Theseus could see the yellow robe of Amur and the admiral’s purple. They moved impatiently.
“Give up the sword,” rapped the sharp tones of Phaistro, “or I shall signal my archers to draw—and bury you at sea as Minos commanded.”
“Choose!” rasped the Hittite. “Life and victory and the throne of Minos—or death!” His eyes flickered uneasily into the north. “And quickly. For the warlocks are sending a storm to hasten us home.”
Theseus saw an angry blade of lightning stab from the dark wall of cloud to northward. His eyes came back to Tai Leng, found the yellow woman standing by the steering oar, stiff and pale as if with dread. His lean body drew straight with decision.
“If you want the Falling Star”—he grinned at Amur and the admiral—“you’ll have to take it!”
The hawk-nosed face of Amur drew into a yellow mask of evil wrath. Dark with anger, the admiral turned, as if to signal his waiting archers. But Theseus, with a gesture at the storm cloud, stopped him.
“Wait a moment, admiral—if you hope to see dry land again!”
The two watched mistrustfully as Theseus beckoned to Tai Leng. Moving with a lazy queenly grace, the yellow woman left the steering oar, and came to him. A gust of cold wind fluttered the torn crimson silk against her tall body.
“Snish,” commanded Theseus, “resume your true form!”
Her golden face went pale with fear.
“But—my master—”
“Obey,” ordered Theseus. “Or I shall touch you.”
“Master,” sobbed Tai Leng, “my life and my art are yours!”
Abruptly, then, squat little Snish was standing where she had stood, with the tattered silk whipping about his gnarled brown figure.
SIX
THE SEAMED frog-face of Snish was as pale, almost, as the yellow girl’s had been, and his huge yellow eyes were bulging with dread. Faintly, his thin voice whined:
“Captain Firebrand, what do you require of your most insignificant slave?”
Standing beside him, Theseus whispered: “I think that your difficulty with the weather is going to save both our lives!”
He turned to Amur and the admiral. Both of them had already betrayed awe of the warlock’s art. Now Phaistro’s thin face was pale and rigid. Amur, waxen-cheeked, was desperately breathing some incantation.
“I’m afraid that you have misled yourselves,” Theseus told them. “For the storm approaching us is not the work of Minos at all—nor of anyone, admiral, who will be very tender with your ships.”
He gestured at the angry avalanche of black cloud rolling down from the north, and then at the shuddering Snish.
“This is my own wizard,” he announced, and lifted his voice above a rumble of thunder. “He is a most remarkable Babylonian sorcerer, and he is responsible for this storm. Tell them, Snish!”
The little wizard nodded his brown bald head, apprehensively. He made a fearful little obeisance toward Amur and the admiral. “Masters, that is true,” he croaked against the roar of a rising wind. “The storm follows me!”
Casting an uneasy eye at the storm, the admiral stiffened angrily.
“Nonsense!” he rapped sharply. “You can see the dwarf is scared to death. I’ll yield to no such trick. Your sword, Captain Firebrand, or your life!”
But Amur was tugging fearfully at his arm. “All wizards are cowards,” rasped the Hittite. “Beware!”
“Beware!” echoed Theseus, and whitecaps flashed ominously across the northward sea. Great sudden drops of rain spattered the deck, and the wind struck savagely. Strained rigging creaked and the galley heeled far over.
“Cut us free,” Theseus shouted, against the bellow of wind and thunder, “while you can!”
Amur and the admiral scrambled up the sloping deck, tumbled back aboard the flagship. Marines with axes hewed desperately at the lashings. The vessels parted, and the sea flung them back together with an ominous crash.
Running to aid Snish with the steering oar, Theseus crouched beneath a flight of arrows. But most of the Cretans were already busy reefing sail.
Theseus leaned on a steering oar, and the racing galley heeled until the waves washed her gunwales. Her lifted hull caught the second flight of arrows. Then the flagship’s black sail split with a boom, and she was left behind.
“Captain Firebrand!” gasped Snish, who had not resumed his feminine guise, “cut loose the sail! Or we’ll capsize!”
Theseus flung his strength against the oar, and the vessel rode up out of a yawning trough. Snish turned green and doubled over the rail. The wind whipped torn red silk about his shuddering brown body.
In the dusky, unreal light of the storm, they drew ahead of the fleet. A lightning flash revealed the black hulls, scattered and tossing, sails chewed up and oarsmen fighting the storm. And then they were hidden beyond a curtain of rain.
Night fell above the cloud, and blue twilight thickened to inky blackness. The battered galley groaned, and dipped until water buried her foredeck. But Theseus stood by Snish at the steering oars, and took her through the storm until its first violence began to slacken.
“We shall reach the coast of Crete,” Theseus shouted, “before this wind has died.”
Snish came stumbling weakly back from the rail. “So we may, Captain Firebrand,” he croaked weakly. “We may be flung upon it in the darkness, and broken on the rocks.” A last flicker of lightning showed his huge-mouthed face, eloquent with apprehension. “Let us bear to the east,” he gasped hoarsely. “This wind will carry us around the end of Crete by dawn. And beyond lies Egypt.”
“But Crete is our destination.”
Snish was sick again. “Egypt is a better one,” he wheezed from the rail. “It is an ancient land, Captain Firebrand, and wealthy. Its gods dwell elsewhere and seldom trouble men, and their priests have no such evil powers as the warlocks of Knossos.”
He stumbled back to Theseus. “With your sword, Captain Firebrand, and my small arts,” he croaked hopefully, “we can win wealth and renown for ourselves in Egypt. We can earn lands and slaves and honor.”
“That may be,” agreed Theseus. “But we are going to Crete. You heard the scroll. You know that Minos himself has foreseen that I shall win the games. And send him into the Labyrinth to seek the mercy of his own dark god! And claim for myself his gilded throne and the charms of fair Ariadne—to enjoy until I can overwhelm the Dark One and end the reign of wizardry!”
The quivering hand of Snish caught his arm in the darkness. “But Minos is strong on his throne,” protested the little wizard, “and he has held it for a thousand years. While times are unsettled in Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself trembles before the press of invaders from the north. Why not join with those invaders, Captain Firebrand? You might even become the new Pharaoh.”
“We are going to Knossos.”
“But consider the folly of that,” Snish croaked u
rgently. “It is not quickness nor courage, nor even battle craft, that wins in the Minoan games. It is magic. And Minos is the oldest and greatest magician. He is himself a god! Therefore he always wins—and they who seek his throne always perish before his wizardry.”
Theseus peered into the gloom that lay upon the tossing sea. “We shall see,” he said. “Already we have passed the fleet.”
“But the fleet is merely the wooden wall of unwalled Knossos,” argued Snish. “There is Talos, the giant of brass, that the Cretans call the second wall. And Talos alone could break down the walls of any city, or scatter any army that ever marched.
“Even if you should pass by Talos, there is the secret that is called the wall of wizardry. It is known only to Minos and his daughter Ariadne. But its strange power is stronger than the fleet, and stronger than the giant of brass.”
Cold and trembling, the hand of Snish tightened on Theseus’ arm. “Now, Captain Firebrand,” he croaked hopefully, “shall we sail for Egypt?”
“We shall, small wizard.” Theseus laughed. “After we have destroyed Minos, and broken the power of the Dark One.”
“Then”—and the teeth of Snish were chattering—“we shall never see Egypt!”
The night wore on, and the north wind continued to blow. Theseus sent Snish to the cabin to sleep, and steered the ship alone. At last, far to westward, he saw a light that burned strangely red and green.
The light was a beacon fire, he knew, kindled on a tower on the headland, to guide the ships of Crete to the harbor below Ekoros. It was colored, he had heard, with magical salts thrown into the flames.
He roused Snish to steer again, and trimmed the sail to bear toward it. The wind was still high for such a tack.
The galley heeled dangerously, and Snish grew ill again. “We’ll never touch land alive,” gasped the little wizard. “The wind is crowding us on the rocks!” His whine became a warning shriek. “Captain—ahead!”
Theseus saw the glint of that far light upon leaping spray. He heard the thunder of wild water, and ran toward the steering oars. But the galley plunged upon the rocks. Fangs of stone bit through the hull, water foamed into the empty oarsmen’s pit. Rigging snapped. The mast splintered, smashed down.
An instant of silence followed the crash, and: “Captain, it is the spell that follows me!” wailed Snish. “No ship that I am aboard ever comes safe to port!”
The galley listed dangerously as the wave ebbed. The next foamed over the stern, and Theseus thought that they were going to sink. But the crest lifted the ship, drove it between two great rocks.
The hull lodged there. The higher waves poured over it, and filled the pit. Loosening timbers groaned to the battering of the sea. Soon, Theseus knew, they would break apart. He peered to left of the far changing beacon, seeking the shadow of land.
Dawn presently revealed the hills of Crete, dark with cypress forests, marching across the south. Theseus cut loose a broken spar, knotted hand ropes to it, and rolled it over the side. Snish protested that he feared the water and had never learned to swim. Theseus dragged him from the wreck, towed him sputtering to the floating yard. The wind drifted them shoreward.
Peering back northward, Theseus saw the sun’s rays pick out scattered black sails, tiny and distant. “The fleet!” he muttered. “Phaistro will soon be after us again.”
The squat little wizard sat uneasily astride the drifting spar, and one brown arm—which still glittered with the green jade bracelets of Tai Leng—made an apprehensive gesture toward the shore.
“Phaistro’s fleet is nothing,” he croaked. “The real danger lies ahead. For Talos, the giant of brass, patrols the coasts of Crete.” The croak became a breathless whisper. “Captain—look!”
Far away toward Knossos, between the blue of the sea and the rising green of the hills, Theseus thought he saw a glancing flash that had the color of brass.
SEVEN
SNISH SLID fearfully off the spar into the sea. His squat brown body was shivering with cold and fear, his huge yellow eyes bulging out.
“My soul!” wheezed the little wizard. “My naked, helpless soul! Why did I let fate drive me out of peaceful Babylon? Captain Firebrand, we are doomed!”
“Don’t drown yourself!” Theseus laughed, just a little uneasily. “That gleam was far off. Perhaps it was only the sun on some housewife’s well-scoured pot.”
Snish clung trembling to the ropes.
“I am wizard enough to know the sight of Talos,” he croaked anxiously. “The brass man is fleet enough to patrol all the coasts of Crete from sunrise to sunset. And wizardry guides his eyes, so no intruders can escape him.
“Oh, if I had stayed a cobbler in far Babylon!”
He pulled himself up beside the spar, and his popping yellow eyes peered over it for a moment toward the shore. But nothing moved there, and he slipped back into the sea.
“I was a cobbler in Babylon,” he wheezed. “But Babylon is an old city. Its empire has crumbled, and all its greatness is but a haunting memory. The caravans pass it by. And business is terrible.”
He sighed. “Even the wizards in Babylon are poor, for they have no such power as the warlocks of Crete. There was one whose boots I patched for seven years, and he was never rich enough to pay even a copper bit upon his bill.
“It was he who taught me the small arts of wizardry that I know. One day when he brought his boots to be soled, I told him I had no leather and no money. He offered to teach me all his sorcery, if I would only sole the boots. And I did. But I had better remained a cobbler!” His hand quivered on the ropes. “For wizardry made me an exile from my own Babylon.” His voice was a nasal sob. “It cursed me with this perversity of the elements. And now it is bringing the monster Talos down upon me!”
“But you are still a wizard!” Theseus was intently watching the dark shoreline, shading his eyes for another warning glint of brass. “And now I am going to call upon your wizardry. The Cretans have been warned that Captain Firebrand is destined to victory in the games, and all the fleet is hunting for him. But they know nothing of Gothung the Northman, who is the Gamecock’s steersman. You saw him—a square-headed giant, with long yellow hair.
“Snish, give me Gothung’s likeness!”
Waiting for the change, Theseus looked down at the little brown man shivering in the water. His sword belt began to feel uncomfortable, and he automatically let it out. A heavy strand of hair fell across his face. He saw that it was straw-yellow.
“It is done, Captain Firebrand,” the little wizard wheezed. “But remember—the spell is feeble. A close touch—even a kiss—will make you the hunted pirate again.”
Theseus was staring at his hands. They were not the lean hands he knew, but huge as hams, sun-reddened, freckle-splotched, covered with white-bleached hair.
“Forget Captain Firebrand,” he whispered. “I am Gothung the Northman—a simple mariner, wrecked on the coast of Crete.” He looked down at Snish. “But what of your own guise?”
The little wizard sank lower in the water.
“Not in Crete!” he croaked. “The warlocks of Knossos are too many and too jealous. The peculiar welcome they reserve for visiting wizards is famous, even to Babylon.” His teeth chattered. “And it is a ghastly thing! No, I am just the poor cobbler, Snish. And I shall attempt no sorcery, master, save what you demand of me.”
The wind had carried them on toward the shore. The beach was no more than an arrow-flight ahead, when Snish pulled himself up beside the yard again, and his yellow face went lax with dread.
“Captain Gothung!” he wheezed faintly. “It is Talos—coming around the headland!”
The little wizard had professed an inability to swim. But now he caught his breath and released the ropes and dived with the skill of an otter. The spar drifted on. Theseus watched the wooded point. And a gleaming metal giant came stalking into view, and waded out through the breakers.
Talos stood twice the height of a man. The metal of his huge body seemed pli
ant, living; the bright skin flexed as he moved. And the waves that struck his mighty legs hissed away in steam, so that Theseus knew he must have been uncommonly hot from his race to meet them.
“Man,” a vast brazen voice reverberated across the surf, “who are you?”
The eyes of Talos were like holes into a furnace; their yellow glare was blinding. His immense bright face reflected a simple and terrible strength—a strength, Theseus thought, that lay chiefly in his metal thews. With the water bursting into white steam about his naked middle, he waited ahead of the spar.
Theseus looked again for Snish, and began to suspect that the little wizard had transformed himself into a fish. He cupped hands to his lips, and shouted back across the surf: “I am just a simple mariner, trying to reach land from the wreck yonder.”
The burning eyes looked past him, toward the rocks, and the mighty voice of Talos boomed: “What ship is that?”
“That was a pirate,” Theseus told him. “The magical wind of Minos drove it on the breakers last night. I was a prisoner, chained to the oars. I cried out to Minos and the Dark One, and they spared my life.”
The fiery eyes of Talos came back to him. “Who was captain of the pirates?”
“He is a lean tall Achean, with red hair.”
“Was his name Firebrand?”
“The pirates,” said Theseus, “called him Captain Firebrand.”
“Captain Firebrand!” The voice of Talos was like thunder. “Where is he now?”
“He lies on the wreck,” shouted Theseus. “He was wounded in a battle with the fleet, and most of the pirates slain. He was running before the storm, to escape, when the ship went on the rocks. The mast fell across his legs, and pinned him to the deck. He cursed me, when I left him, and mocked the names of Minos and the Dark One.”
Talos waded forward, with the water hissing higher about his bright hot body.
The Reign of Wizardry Page 5