But—he mustn’t fail!
Somehow, he made himself stand again to face the grinning Nubian. He groped for something through the vagueness of his spinning brain. He found it. A trick he had learned, painfully, from a camel driver who had come with a silk caravan from the east.
He tensed his quivering body, crouched, waited. The Nubian struck again. He caught the dark wrist, ridged with the thongs that held the cestus. He twisted, then, dragging the slick oiled arm over his back. A blow on the neck staggered him. But he kept his grip, lunged, bent.
Twisted sidewise from his feet, the Nubian went spinning over the shoulder of Theseus. Released with a final well-timed fling, he came down upon the helmeted head. There was another small muffled snap in the arena, and the boxer was dead.
Black oxen dragged away the body. Horns snarled, and the herald cried:
“Gothung has mounted the fourth step. Let him strive again, with the aspect of the Dark One that is man.”
There was a murmur in the crowd. Giddy, reeling, breathless, Theseus did not look up. But he caught the lowered husky voice of Amur the Hittite:
“If Minos is betting on the Northman, I am through. An honest man can’t wager with wizards! I’ll lay you fifty talents that they have already seen the final victory, in their spheres of time!”
Theseus shared the same uneasy suspicion. Blinking against the sun, he found the merry blue eyes of Minos again, and wondered what mockery lay beyond their twinkle. He saw Ariadne, impatient and white, with three talents on his death. And again he glimpsed that gnarled dark figure, in the box behind Minos, and caught the glare of sunken, evil eyes. He shivered once more to the feel of cold, supernal power.
The horns whined again, and Theseus waited. Desperately, he wanted a drink of water. He closed his eyes against the glaring sand, and saw the shaded pool in Attica where he had learned so long ago to swim. Flies clustered about the smarting scratches on his chest and thigh, grimy sweat ran down into his eyes. And at last the second man entered the arena.
This was a swart, little Cretan marine, with his weighted net and bronze-pronged trident. He trotted out watchfully across the sand, spinning the net into a blurring circle. Theseus wished for the good hilt of the Falling Star in his hand, and flexed his empty fingers.
The Cretan circled him cautiously, ran in abruptly, flung the net. But Theseus, watching his narrowed dark eyes, had seen warning of the effort. He crouched, reached out, caught the spinning web.
Once, on Captain Firebrand’s pirate galley, a captured marine had paid for his life with instruction in all the tricks of net play. Theseus dropped to his knees upon the sand. But he kept the net spinning, and held its weighted cords from whipping about his limbs, and tossed it back to meet the Cretan.
The marine had lunged after the cast net, with both hands on his trident. The returned net tangled it, tripped him. Theseus caught the trident, dragged it out of clutching hands, reversed it. A bronze point ripped the Cretan’s breast and shoulder.
“Do you yield?” Theseus demanded.
White with pain, the man half-lifted himself. Theseus stopped him, with the prongs against his throat. Faintly, then, he gasped:
“I yield.”
And he sprawled back on the sand, dead. Theseus dropped the trident and stumbled back from him. He was cold with a shuddering wonderment. He knew that wound had not been fatal.
The horns shrilled. The herald made announcement that the Northman had mounted the fifth step toward the throne Black oxen returned to drag off the dead marine. Theseus waited, too weary to slap at the flies on his wounds. And at last the third man came into the arena.
This champion of the Dark One was a tall, harsh-visaged Etruscan—one of the wandering warrior race that Minos had brought from the north coasts to guard his throne. Shining bronze plated his helmet and his greaves. He carried a notched shield nearly as tall as himself, and a long bronze sword.
Theseus reeled, staring at the glitter of the sun on that sword. He fought down a brief desire to fling himself upon it, and find a swift, clean end to all his weariness and pain. He brushed the flies away, and fumbled dimly for another plan.
There was a long dark blot on the sand, where the bulls must have killed another victim. That might be useful. Because he had to go on. Not for the throne of Minos, nor the loot of Knossos, nor even Ariadne’s insolent beauty. But for a naked brown baby, it seemed, crying in a gutter.
The Etruscan’s shield was heavy. Weary as he was, Theseus could move fast enough to keep out of the way for a little time, until he got trapped in a corner. He retreated, turned, paused, fled again.
The Etruscan ran after him, panting, sweating, cursing. The sun was blinding on the helmet and the sword. Theseus passed the dark pool of blood, passed it again, and a third time. But the mercenary avoided it. It was the few drops the dead marine had spilled that set him at last to stumbling.
Theseus stopped, stooped, whirled back. Trembling fingers caught a bronze-greaved leg, lifted. The Etruscan sprawled flat on his back, beneath the long shield. The bare heel of Theseus came down on his elbow, and the bronze sword dropped. Theseus snatched the weapon, swung it high.
But he did not strike.
For Minos, in the black-curtained box, had risen suddenly. His rosy cheeks still dimpled genially, and his small blue eyes were merry. But he lifted a round pink arm, in a gesture of annoyance. A blinding blue bolt whipped out of his empty fingers. Authentic thunder crashed. Smelling of burned leather and seared flesh, the struggling Etruscan fell again.
ELEVEN
THESEUS STOOD reeling, staring up into those jolly eyes. The dazzling sand rocked again, and the ruddy dimpled smile of Minos was suspended before him like a mask of jovial merriment, against a flaming haze of weariness and pain. He thought that one twinkling eye winked at him, and Minos sat down again.
Despite the sun’s dry sting, Theseus felt cold. This thing was proof enough, it seemed to him, that Minos was actually a god, that he in fact commanded the lightning. How, he wondered, was any winner of these contests to make good his claims, against such powers? Was that the meaning of the wink?
Theseus had hoped that the priests and the people would insist on fair play with the winner. But the awed hush that followed that crashing bolt seemed proof enough of Minos’ absolute dominion. Theseus could expect no aid.
Few contestants, Theseus guessed, had ever mounted so far toward the throne of Minos. For the seated thousands were leaning forward, breathless, white-faced, staring. Even the voice of the herald had gone hoarse and unsure:
“Gothung the Northman has been favored to mount the throne of Minos, by the Dark One in his aspects of bull and man. Therefore let the Northman now test the will of the Dark One in his sublime aspect of the god.”
The horns whined again.
“Gothung will stand and wait at the center of the arena. First let him determine the will of the Dark One through Cybele, daughter of the Dark One and mother of men, whose vessel is the fair Ariadne.”
Swaying, bewildered, Theseus stumbled to the middle of the arena. He found the outline of the sacred double ax of Minos, marked with black sand poured upon the white, and stood upon it. Half blinded with the glare of sun on sand, he stood there, watching Ariadne, wondering what the next test would be.
The silver horns sounded again.
Green-eyed Ariadne rose lazily in her white-curtained box. She tossed her head, to send ruddy flame-tresses rippling back, and strolled with an insolent grace out upon a long railed platform that ran before the boxes. The sun turned her long white body to gleaming marble, shimmered green on her daring gown.
The white dove clung to her bare shoulder, fluttering to keep its balance when she moved. The girdle about her thin waist, Theseus saw, was fashioned in the shape of a silver serpent. It seemed to writhe, oddly, as if it were alive—perhaps, Theseus thought, his uncovered head was getting too much sun.
A fat red-robed priestess brought Ariadne a long white bow, and
another offered her a full quiver of arrows. Displaying a strength and skill surprising to Theseus, she strung the bow, tested its pull, let the string twang viciously.
Carefully she selected a long, green-feathered arrow from the quiver, nocked it, then stood for a little moment watching Theseus. Her voice rang out, clear as a golden horn:
“Northman, I am glad you have lived to try the steps of the gods. For Cybele has her own quarrel with you.”
The drive of the sun was an intolerable searing thrust and Theseus felt a prickling over all his skin, and a weakness in his limbs. His throat was painful and parched, but he managed to shout hoarsely:
“And I have a lesson for Cybele. The All-Mother should not kill, but love.”
He saw color, then, in the whiteness of her face. The red splendor of her head made a little angry toss. Slowly, with a splendid strength, she drew the bow, pulled the arrow to her cheek. And her clear voice pealed:
“Even Cybele can slay!”
Something, even in that breathless moment, drew the eyes of Theseus from her tall beauty and her peril. Something made him look high above the curtained boxes. There, in the topmost tier of seats, he glimpsed the face of Snish.
The seamed ugly features of the little Babylonian were stiff and pallid. And his hands came up, with an odd swift gesture, as if to fend the arrow from himself. Could—or would—the little wizard help?
The glance of Theseus fled back to Ariadne. The sun gleamed on the silver scales of the serpent-girdle, and he thought the bright coils tightened around her. The dove fluttered white wings. And the bow twanged.
Theseus had dodged arrows. He tried to drop flat, at the sound of the string, in hope that the shaft might pass above him. But he couldn’t move!
His weary body was held rigid, above that sand-laid outline of the double ax, as if he had been bound to an invisible post. Now he had met the gods—and their wizardry!
But it was an angry defiance that sprang into him, and not a fear. His head set grimly, and his open eyes looked straight to meet the hissing shaft. The warlocks might chain his body, but his mind still fought!
The arrow whispered by his ear!
Free of the invisible bonds, Theseus swayed. A trembling looseness came into his knees, and he wanted to sit down on the burning sand. He shaded his eyes, stared up at the boxes, where an uneasy murmuring ran.
He was incredulous. He could have sworn that the arrow was drawn straight at his right eye. Her practiced stance had told him that Ariadne was a well-skilled archer. Nor could he suspect that, for any possible reason, she had deliberately spared him.
For all color had left her lovely face again. The splendor of her head was high with anger. The green light of her eyes turned dark, dangerous. She turned swiftly to her red-robed priestess, reaching for another arrow.
The soft woman’s voice of Minos stopped her.
“Stay, daughter! The Dark One guided your arrow, and it missed. The Northman has mounted the seventh step toward my throne.” The small eyes danced genially. “Let him try the eighth.”
The dimples deepened as Minos smiled; his fat pink hands made a little gesture to the herald and the priests. Thoroughly puzzled—and still with a deep, invincible apprehension of this stout merry man and his power—Theseus looked up across the silent throng again, and found the wrinkled, wide-mouthed face of Snish.
The yellow popeyes of the little wizard were staring at him. And one of them deliberately winked! Was it Snish, whose arts had deflected the arrow? With a sudden fear that his eyes would betray the Babylonian, Theseus looked swiftly away from him.
The horns keened again, and the herald shouted:
“Now let the Northman test the will of the Dark One through the great Minos, who is his son, and his regent over the earth.”
The unseen fetters, Theseus discovered, held his body again, so that he stood unable to move upon the black sign of the double ax. He stood in the blaze of sun, lightheaded, helpless, watching.
Minos stood up, and came out of the black-curtained box, to the platform where Ariadne had stood. For all his plumpness, he moved with a surprising ease and vigor; he almost bounced.
He slipped off the white robe, tossed it to a slave. Bare except for belt and loincloth, his hairless body looked pink and firm. His middle showed evidence of good living, but there was no hint anywhere of a thousand years’ decay. His rosy cheeks dimpled to a genial smile, and the small blue eyes twinkled down at Theseus. He might have been the priest of some small deity of wine and song, placing his blessing upon a night of carnival.
“So, Northman, you seek my throne?” Bright laughter bubbled in his woman-voice. “Let the Dark One choose!”
A black-robed priest knelt before him on the platform, offered him with bowed head something long and bent and black. It was a stick of ancient ebony, Theseus saw, curved on one side and flattened on the other, longer than the pink arm of Minos. It was polished to the gleam of glass.
Minos took the boomerang, with a firm and easy grasp. His preliminary swing was strong and free. His pink face smiled like a happy child’s, and his blue eyes sparkled warmly. Yet the careful swiftness of his motions convinced Theseus that the eighth test was going to be a very real one.
“O Dark One,” he called softly. “Choose!”
With a long and powerful sweep of the round pink arm, he threw the boomerang. Unable to move, Theseus stood on the black emblem of the double ax, watching with defiant level eyes.
For one heartbeat, he knew that it was hurtling straight toward his head. Straight. It was going to hit him. Then, abruptly, making a savage whi-whi-whi, it flashed past his head. Another incredible miss!
But a boomerang returns.
Theseus still could not turn his head. But, watching the faces of the thousands before him, he saw them follow the spinning weapon beyond him, up, back. He heard the hissing whistle of it again.
Heard it, once more, pass him!
It lifted a little puff of white sand before him, danced away like a graceful, live thing, dropped and lay still. Theseus looked up at the rosy face of Minos. It held the same dimpled smile. He waited for a slave to replace the white robe about his shoulders, bounced back into the dark-curtained box.
Horns shrilled again, and the herald croaked:
“The Northman has mounted eight steps toward the throne. Through Minos himself, the Dark One indicates favor. There remains the ninth test. The Northman will learn the final will of the Dark One, through Daedalus the wizard, who is his high priest, his hand, and his voice.”
The heart of Theseus was beginning to skip. The blazing white sand spun about him, until he felt that he was floating in a sea of white searing fire. His fatigue was gone. His body was a dead and distant thing; the itch and sting of the flies on his wounds had ceased to matter.
Dimly, he tried to remember what was happening. He had a dim, vague hope that he might escape this final danger, but he couldn’t recall what he must do next. He watched Daedalus through a screen of unreality.
The warlock came out of the curtained box, and shed his own black robe. If Minos had looked amazingly young, Daedalus was very old—and yet incredibly strong. His body was dark, hairy, shrunken, gnarled like some ancient tree.
Beneath stringy black hair, his face was creased into wrinkles no few centuries could have wrought. It was waxen, hollow, skeletal His eyes were deeply sunken, black, flaming with a sinister power. Lean dark claws of fingers raked through his stringy black beard.
While the horns whined again, black-robed priests brought the warlock a leather-thonged sling and a bright, heavy little copper ball. Staring at the ball with those flaming hollow eyes, Daedalus muttered over it, fitted it at last to the socket of the sling.
The sling spun about his head. Hard muscles knotted and quivered, jerking his lean twisted frame swiftly and more swiftly. He was like a dwarfed mountain oak, Theseus thought, battered and shaken in a savage wind. The sling became a blurred wheel of motion. The leather tho
ngs murmured, sighed, screamed.
Theseus found strength again to test his unseen fetters. They held him. But they made no difference now, he thought. For no man could hope to dodge that screaming shot.
It came—whined harmlessly by!
The invisible bonds were abruptly loosed. Theseus pitched to bare knees on the baking white sand, and the whole arena rocked. He saw the baleful malice that twisted the gnarled, evil face of Daedalus, saw him limp angrily back into the dark-curtained box.
Horns shrilled, and the herald stepped forward again. He was pale and perspiring. He tried thrice to speak, gulped thrice for his voice, croaked faintly at last:
“Gothung the Northman has mounted the nine steps to the throne of Minos. In his three aspects, of bull and man and god, the Dark One has shown favor. The tests are done, and Gothung the Northman is chosen to ascend the throne!”
Faint as that voice was, every word rang clear through the brittle tensity of silence that had fallen upon the vast arena, There was a long, intolerable moment of suspension. Swaying on his knees, Theseus watched the bland chubby face of Minos, and his heart was still with dread of another lightning bolt.
But the pink baby-face of Minos dimpled again, his blue eyes shone merrily, and jovial laughter sparked beneath his silken voice:
“Rise, Northman, and take the throne!”
The rosy arm made a little gesture, and Theseus followed it toward the end of the arena. What he saw sent a swift cold tremor through every limb. The massive gate had opened again. Talos, the brazen giant, was striding toward him over the sand.
TWELVE
THESEUS DRAGGED himself once more to his feet, on the black spinning outline of the double ax. His quivering limbs were weak with apprehension of some new and treacherous attack.
But there was nothing, he thought, that he could do against the brass might of Talos.
The Reign of Wizardry Page 8