“Here he is!” A sharp voice ripped through the night. “Take him.”
Theseus stood motionless, shuddering. For that was the thin, angry voice of the admiral himself. Phaistro had escaped from the dungeon and the likeness of the doomed pirate—and, of course, had soon discovered where to strike. Ariadne, Theseus guessed with a new sinking of his heart, had known of the escape and the danger; why hadn’t her warning been more definite?
Dim shapes flitted through the shadows of the olives.
“The pirate!” cried Phaistro. “Take him alive, for the Dark One!”
SIXTEEN
THESEUS HAD come weaponless to the tryst; even the admiral’s bronze blade he had left in the palanquin. For an instant he half regretted that he had left the wall of wizardry, wondering if its power might now have served him. But he set himself empty-handed to the matter of escape.
“Greetings, admiral!” he shouted into the shadows. “But you may find you had done better to keep the shape of Captain Firebrand!”
He crouched as he shouted, sprinted down a dim avenue of olives. The shrill voice of Phaistro screamed angry commands behind him, and scores of men burst out of shadow clumps.
Cast nets spun about Theseus. He leaped them, ducked them. But one tripped him, and he went down painfully. A panting marine was instantly upon him. He grasped the haft of a thrusting trident, twisted it, heaved, sent the Cretan reeling into the darkness.
Kicking out of the net, he ran again. Three marines stood up before him. He flung the trident like a spear. The middle man went down. Theseus leaped between whirling nets, and ran on down toward the river.
The uproar pursued, and torches flared against the pale glow of dawn. No more men appeared ahead, however, and he began to hope that he had evaded Phaistro’s trap. Once across the river, he could doubtless find some temporary hiding place; he might make himself a disguise less fickle than those of Snish; there would be time to plan whatever new attack that possession of the wall of wizardry might make possible.
But, even as he went at a stumbling run down a narrow, dry ravine, doubts returned to check his feet. Had Ariadne betrayed her father—or him?
“No!” he sobbed. “That couldn’t be!”
He remembered the vital pressure of her clinging body, the hot magic of her kisses. He believed she really loved him. But, if he had a purpose more important than love, so might she. A goddess would hardly betray her own pantheon. After all, she was doubtless about fifty times as old as she looked—and the vessel of Cybele, besides! A kiss couldn’t mean so much to her!
He paused for breath in a clump of brush—and abruptly all hope of escape was shattered. For a deep, brazen bellow rolled above the shouts of the men behind. He saw a torch carried high as the trees. Its rays glinted on the gigantic metal body of Talos.
The brass man came lumbering down the ravine. The flame-yellow of his eyes was as bright, almost, as the torch. Rocks crashed, and the ground quivered under his tread. Theseus crouched lower in the brush. For an instant, breathless, he dared to hope that Talos would go by. But the crashing stopped abruptly, and the giant stood above him like a metal colossus.
“Captain Firebrand,” boomed that mighty voice, “you are taken again for the Dark One. Probably you think you are clever. But you shall not escape me—not with all your tricks and masks. For Talos is no fool!”
The ravine’s bank, at that instant, gave way beneath the giant’s weight. He sat down ignominiously in a cloud of dust. Theseus leaped to his feet, darted on toward the river.
But Talos, moving in spite of his bulk with a terrible swiftness, recovered his footing. With three crashing strides, he overtook Theseus, caught his arm in a great hand whose metal was almost searingly hot.
“No, Captain Firebrand,” rumbled the giant. “This time you shall certainly meet the Dark One. Talos can promise you that. And you may find, after all, that you are the fool!”
That blistering, resistless hand held Theseus until the admiral and his men came up in the gray increasing light of dawn. Phaistro trembled with a fresh rage to discover his own embroidered robe upon Theseus—somewhat torn from the race down the ravine. His marines stripped Theseus.
“Never mind your nakedness, pirate dog!” He spat. “Men need no clothing in the Labyrinth.”
Theseus was presently conducted back toward the town. Sharp stones and briers injured his bare feet—for Phaistro had recovered the beaded buskins. Marching in a hollow square about him, the marines kept prodding him with their tridents. Talos stalked watchfully behind.
Hopefully, Theseus wondered about the fate of Snish. He saw no evidence that the little wizard had fallen into the trap. Perhaps his ever-belittled arts had still served to save him. But there was scant likelihood, Theseus thought, that Snish would come voluntarily to his aid—or small chance, perhaps, that he could defeat the wizardry of Crete again, even if he tried.
The sun had risen by the time they came through groves and vineyards into view of the great ancient pile of Knossos. The admiral, carried in his palanquin before the marching marines, shouted back at Theseus:
“Look well at that sun, pirate—for you won’t see it again. Men don’t come back from the justice of the Dark One.”
They passed the dark Etruscan guards standing rigid at the entrance, and came into the winding confusion of the corridors of the palace. Night fell upon them again, for the sun was not high enough to cast its rays into the shafts. Lamps still flared in dusky passages.
A group of black-robed Minoan priests met them, armed with long bronze-bladed lances. Their leader reported to Talos:
“Minos is ready to sit: in judgment at once. The prisoner will have no chance to escape again. He is to be brought without delay to the hall of the Dark One.”
The marines fell back, and the black priests formed another hollow square. Lances drove Theseus forward again, and Talos stalked behind.
They entered none of the courts or halls that Theseus had seen before. The priests took up torches from a niche beside the way, and lit them from a red-flaring lamp. Unfamiliar turnings took them into long descending passages. There were no light wells, and the air had the dank chill of perpetual darkness.
At last they came to a massive double door of bronze. It was ornamented with huge bulls’ heads, of the same metal, and green with age-old damp. Talos strode ahead of the priests, and his metal fist thundered against it.
At last the door opened silently, and the lances urged Theseus into a long, narrow hall. Its walls were massive blocks of Egyptian basalt, illuminated only with the dull, varicolored flicker of a tripod brazier.
Upon a low dais, beyond the brazier, were three black stone seats. Black-robed Daedalus, the hand and the voice of the Dark One, sat in the center. White-robed, rosy face dimpled merrily, Minos was on his right. On his left, in green, sat Ariadne—motionless.
In the brazier’s uncertain light, Theseus stared at her. She sat proud and straight upon the basalt throne. The white perfection of her face was serenely composed. Her eyes shown cool and green against the flame, and she did not appear to see him.
The white dove sat motionless on her shoulder, and its bright black eye seemed to watch him. The serpent girdle gleamed against her waist, slowly writhing, and the eyes in its flat silver head were points of sinister crimson.
Theseus tensed himself against a shuddery chill along his spine. He tried to draw his eyes from the enigmatic vessel of Cybele. It was hard to believe this the same being whose kisses had been so fervid in the ancient shrine.
While half the black priests stood with ready lances, the rest knelt, chanted. The reverberation of a huge brazen gong—deep as the bellow of some monstrous bull—set all the hall to quivering.
Theseus stood, stiffened and shivering, until at last the gong throbbed and shuddered into silence. The three stood up, upon the dais. Framed in fine white hair, the rosy face of Minos dimpled to a genial smile.
“We, the lesser gods, have heard the charges
against this notorious criminal, the Achean pirate, called Firebrand.” The woman-voice was soft; the small blue eyes twinkled merrily. “It is clear to us that the weight of his crimes demands the prompt judgment of the Dark One.”
Fat pink hands fingered the silk of his robe, and he smiled jovially at the tall, naked body of Theseus.
“Therefore,” he chuckled softly, “we remand the prisoner to the Labyrinth that is the dwelling of the Dark One, to face his eternal justice.”
He turned, and his blue eyes twinkled into the dark, skeletal visage of Daedalus. “Do you, the hand and the voice of the Dark One, concur?”
The hollow, musty voice of the gnarled warlock grated: “I concur.”
With his rosy baby-smile, Minos turned to Ariadne. “And you, vessel of Cybele, who is daughter of the Dark One?”
Breathless, Theseus watched her. The green eyes came slowly to him. Some tremor of her body made the white dove shift its balance. But her eyes remained remote and cold, and her golden voice said faintly:
“I concur.”
The dancing eyes of Minos came back to Theseus and the tall bulk of Talos, waiting rigidly behind him.
“The gods concur.” Laughter sparkled in his liquid voice. “Now let the door to the Labyrinth be opened, so that the prisoner may cross the threshold of the Dark One to face his judgment.”
Talos moved startlingly, like a statue abruptly animated. But Ariadne, with an imperious little gesture of her bare white arm, froze him into inert bright metal again.
“Wait,” she said. “I’ve a gift for the prisoner.”
Minos and Daedalus turned swiftly upon her. The pink, cherubic features of Minos forgot their dimpled smile, and the seamed dark face of the high priest twisted into a mask of frightful wrath. Protesting whispers hissed.
From beside her on the black throne, Ariadne lifted a long roll of papyrus.
“This is a copy of the ‘Book of the Dead,’” said her even golden tones, “that was brought by the Pharaoh’s ambassadors. It is intended for the guidance of the soul beyond the gates of death.” Her laugh was a tinkle of mockery, and the green eyes were cold. “I believe that Captain Firebrand will have use for it.”
The merry eyes of Minos and the hollow, flaming ones of Daedalus peered at her doubtfully. Minos made a little, impatient bouncing motion on his black throne. The rusty voice of the warlock croaked:
“The prisoner has no need of it. It is the custom that men should meet the Dark One as they came from his daughter, naked, with empty hands. And even the soul required no guidance beyond the Dark One’s dwelling, for it will be consumed.”
But the pink, chubby body of Minos was shaken with abrupt merriment. “My daughter jests,” he sobbed. “Remember, the prisoner is her enemy. Let him take the scroll of death—and go ahead to use it!”
The slim white arm of Ariadne extended the scroll’s long cylinder. Theseus came forward silent, and took it, contriving not to betray its unexpected weight. He searched her white, lovely features for some hint of understanding. Her face remained a serene, proud mask.
“Go, pirate,” she said. “The Labyrinth is open.”
Already shivering to the abrupt penetrating chill that had invaded the black hall, Theseus slowly turned. He saw that Talos had stooped to grasp a huge bronze ring-bolt fastened to one of the great square basalt blocks that paved the floor, was lifting.
Gleaming bronze limbs and torso splendid with bunched swelling muscles, Talos heaved mightily. The huge stone came slowly up, before the dais. A dark, acrid fetor rose up from the black space beneath, and a stillness of awful dread fell upon the hall.
Theseus saw that the priests were blanched and shuddering. The visage of Daedalus was a dark, stony mask; Ariadne’s face was white, frozen, and Minos had ceased to smile. Theseus himself felt a weak sickness of terror.
Something in that dank stench loosened his knees and poured cold fear dust down his spine. It was a hint of something more than cold and wet and endless dark and ancient rot, a reek of something—monstrous!
The straining body of Talos made muffled ringing sounds, like the thrum of muted strings, and at last the grinding stone came fully upright. The pallid priests silently leveled their lances, and the great, urgent hand of Talos reached out, hot with his effort.
Theseus glanced back at the three on the dais. He managed a mocking grin, and waved the papyrus scroll at them, casually. He turned, and spat deliberately into the dark pit beneath the lifted stone, and walked casually toward it.
Yet he was shivering. He pressed the scroll against his side, to stop the shaking of it. He came to the brink of the pit. In the faint reflected light, he saw stone steps, leading down.
He bent, placed his hands on the brink, and dropped upon the stair. Waving the scroll in farewell, under the flaming yellow eyes of Talos, he walked down into that sharp and ancient fetor.
That huge gong sobbed again behind him; the priests were chanting. The stone ground. There was a dull and mighty crash. And all light was cut off, as the many tons of the basalt door fell back into place.
SEVENTEEN
THESEUS STOOD motionless for a time upon those stone steps that he could no longer see. The air about him was a cold, stagnant fluid. It stung his nostrils with that reek of ancient putrescence, troubled him with that foul hint of something—living.
The mighty jar of the falling stone rang for a space in his ears, and then he felt the silence. He knew that the men and the lesser gods of Crete must be moving out of the black-walled hall. But not even the tread of Talos came to him through the portal and the floor.
The silence was solid, frightful.
Even in the utter dark, however, and despite that appalling, paralyzing stillness, he sought a ray of hope. For he had passed the three walls of Crete, and now he stood, still living, in the domain of the Dark One.
The Dark One, he knew—or fear of the Dark One—was the real ruler of Crete. If the hungry toil-drawn thousands obeyed the edicts of Minos, and starved their children to pay tithes and taxes, and offered them to perish in the games, it was through that fear.
Theseus stood unbowed within the entrance to the god’s dwelling, and he was not empty-handed. He had felt the unexpected weight within the papyrus scroll, when Ariadne gave it to him. Now, when his eager fingers broke the seal and ripped it open, they found a thing they well knew—the polished hilt of the Falling Star!
The steel blade had been taken by the Etruscans who first captured him, by his own design, in the street of Ekoros. He had not expected to feel it in his hand again. He made a hissing stroke through the musty dark, and breathed his thanks to Ariadne.
Gripping the sword, he started down the slippery steps.
“Well, Falling Star,” he whispered, “if we are fated to rot and rust here, at least we’ll seek the Dark One first—and find out if bright steel will cut the stuff that Cretan gods are made of!”
His groping hands could span the rough-hewn passage, reach the arch above. The slope was sharply down, so that the steps were narrow. He went slowly, counting the steps and testing each carefully before he set his full weight upon it.
After sixty steps there was a small square landing and a turning in the passage; after sixty more, another. Upon the third landing his foot crushed something brittle, and his exploring fingers found two crumbling skeletons.
He thought that the more delicate bones must have been a woman’s. The two sets were intermingled, as if their owners had perished in a final long embrace. Oddly, the man’s skull and a few others of the larger bones were missing.
Theseus left the remains and went on down, wondering what might be upon the fourth landing. Again he counted fifty-eight steps. But, where the fifty-ninth had been, there was—nothing.
Almost, moving with too great confidence, he had lost his balance. He recovered himself, and climbed one step back. He could feel a faint current of fetid air, rising beyond that invisible brink. Faintly, his ears caught a whisper of moving water
, somewhere far below.
He tried to shout, to explore the space before him with the sound of his voice. His first effort brought only a rasping croak. Resolutely he put down the monstrous fear that this half-expected chasm had planted in him, and called out hoarsely:
“Greeting, Dark One!”
For a long time there was no echo at all, as if Theseus’ voice had fallen against some muting curtain. At last, however, the reverberations of his shout came rolling back, amplified and distorted, from a thousand ragged distant ledges. He knew that there was a cavern before him, vast and deep.
Reaching out carefully, he explored the walls with his fingers as far as he could reach. Smooth stone extended in every direction. He could discover no possible way of climbing up or aside, and even the questing tip of his sword could reach no possible footing before him or below.
He knew, now, why the unknown man and woman had chosen to die upon the landing. He guessed, too, why part of their bones were gone—and that he had not been the first to follow them.
Their bones, he thought, might be useful to him also.
Climbing back to the landing, he gathered up the woman’s skull and an armful of bones. He counted and tested the slime-covered steps again, and came back to the one above the last, and dropped the man’s thigh bone over the brink.
It struck no ledge to which he could dare to drop. For a long time no sound at all came back from the chasm. Then there was a faint and distant splash, that whispered eerily against the unseen walls.
Patiently, he dropped other bones at different points along the step, and then began tossing them in different directions. All of them fell for a long time, as the first had done, and splashed faintly, until he tossed the skull.
That struck something before him, and almost level with the step. It rolled, with a thin, hollow, bumping sound, and the bumping ceased, and finally there was another tiny splash.
The Reign of Wizardry Page 12