The Reign of Wizardry (11 page)

“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 thongs 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.

T
HESEUS 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.

He waited, feeling the quiver of the sand to the tread of Talos. The twelve-foot shining giant came up to him. The fiery
eyes looked down, filled with simple cunning, and the hollow voice rumbled:

“I remember you, Gothung the Northman. I spoke with you when you came ashore from the wrecked galley of the pirate Firebrand.” His chuckle was an immense deep reverberation. “And I know you still. For Talos is no fool!”

Theseus felt that Captain Firebrand, just now, was a very dangerous subject. He contrived to stand
on the hot sand, swaying. He had no idea what to expect—except fresh peril! The hushed, startled crowd had no look of a people greeting a new ruler. It seemed insane to think that Minos would willingly surrender the throne.

Anxiously, in quest of further aid, his eyes roved up across the tiers of seats, to where he had seen Snish. But the little wizard, as he half expected, had vanished again.
If Snish indeed had taken a hand in the games, that was all he could expect. He looked back, with concealed apprehension, into the flame-yellow eyes of Talos.

“Well?” His voice was faint and dry. “What do you want?”

“Master, now you are going to be the new Minos.” The words of Talos were a throbbing roll of brazen sound. “And I shall be your slave. I have come to serve you.”

“Then,” whispered
Theseus, “show me the way to the throne I have won.”

“Wait, master,” rumbled Talos.

A breathless quiet still filled the long bowl. There was not even a whisper, save from Minos and Daedalus and Ariadne. Those three had come together on the little platform from which they had launched arrow and boomerang and shot. They spoke together furtively in the secret language, and at last Minos called
something to the herald.

The horns keened a last fanfare, and the herald shouted hoarsely:

“Let Gothung the Northman come now to the palace of Knossos. Let him bathe, and rest from the ardor of the trials he has passed. At sunset, let him come to the sacred hall of the double ax.

“There he will receive all that the favor of the Dark One has bestowed upon him. The robe of Minos will be placed
upon his shoulders, and he will take his place among the gods. Cybele will be wed to him. And he will take up the double ax of war and peace that is the sign of the Dark One’s regency.”

Theseus touched the hot, smooth brass thigh of Talos.

“Tell them,” he whispered, “that I shall do that.”

The great voice boomed out obediently.

“Now,” breathed Theseus, “lead the way to Knossos! I shall follow
you.”

Talos stalked back toward the massive gate, and Theseus staggered after him. It took all his strength to walk. Yet he contrived to stride boldly, to hold his yellow head high. Even if he should die now, he thought, from some warlock’s trick, or a cowardly blade in his back, it would be in the midst of a triumph that must at least have shaken the power of Minos.

As he moved, a hushed and
voiceless sound ran among the still-seated thousands. It seemed to hold a breathless surprise. There was relief in it, and dread. And also, Theseus thought, disappointment.

The great portal was opened for them at the end of the arena. Theseus paused for a moment in it, looked back. The crowd was beginning to rise, with an increasing murmur of awed and excited voices. Minos and Daedalus and Ariadne
had gone.

Theseus followed the long strides of the brass man through the streets of Ekoros, toward the mighty pile of Knossos. This was a rich suburb, far different from the squalid quarter where he had met the palanquin of Ariadne.

The stone-paved streets were wider, clean-swept. There were no open sewers, no naked babies playing. High stone walls shut the villas away from the road, and only
the trees of secluded gardens looked above them.

Evidently a rumor of the outcome of the games had already passed through the town. For the street was clear. The only people Theseus saw were lying on their faces in the intersecting alleys. A hushed silence followed him. Only once, from a huddle of rags, a woman’s thin voice quivered out:

“Oh, new Minos! Pity your people, in their want. Clothe
them, in their nakedness. Feed them, in their starvation. Remember that you were human once, and spare them from the terror of your power!”

Even when they came to the long mass of the palace, upon
its low eminence, none appeared to greet them. Theseus heard only distant whispers and far, hurried steps, merely glimpsed fearful figures hastening down dark endless corridors.

For all his anxiety
and fatigue, he felt an awe at the vastness and the splendor of Knossos. The intricacies of its courts and corridors and lightwells and stairs and piled-up rooms bewildered him. But everywhere were rich tapestries, matchless frescoes, jars of purple gypsum—marks of wealth that woke Captain Firebrand in him.

“What a place,” he murmured, “for us to loot!”

The floor beams creaked rather ominously
beneath the tread of Talos. But he guided Theseus through the hushed corridors, and across an immense, flagstone-paved central court, and down a wide stair toward the river.

His fatigue half forgotten, Theseus was staring with a breathless elation at all the rich splendor they passed. It was his! He had won it, in the games. And it was going to be formally bestowed on him, after sunset—unless
some warlock’s trick intervened!

But not his for long, he knew. For he had won it, not for himself, but for the people of Crete, and his own Attica, and all the world. His next task—if, indeed, he had won anything—was to crush the priests and warlocks, end the cruel worship of the Dark One, shatter the reign of wizardry.

Then—well, the long habit of wandering had grown too strong to be easily
broken. There was Egypt, with ancient wonders of its own. There were the strange far lands of the East. And, doubtless, other stranger lands beyond them.

Talos stopped beside a doorway.

“These rooms are yours, master,” he boomed softly. “The slaves within will bathe you, serve all your needs. Rest until the sun has set. I shall wait by the door.”

And Talos abruptly became perfectly motionless,
in an odd way he had, so that he looked precisely like a huge statue of polished brass. Simple cunning was set upon his huge bright face, and the flame-yellow eyes stared fixedly.

Theseus walked wearily past him, into a rich apartment, illuminated from a white-plastered lightshaft. The walls were bright with lively scenes from the arena, graceful youths and girls vaulting over savage bulls. The
cool rooms were furnished in the richly simple Cretan fashion, with rugs and low couches.

Two slaves showed him into the bathroom, lifted him into
a long bronze tub. Dissolving the grime of dungeon and arena, the hot soapy water felt very good. He didn’t even mind the sting of it in his shallow wounds. He was beginning to feel very sleepy.

For a few moments his attention was held by the novelties
of running water, drains, and a toilet that flushed. But his eyes were half closed when the slaves lifted him out of the tub. They toweled him, rubbed fragrant oil over his wounds, carried him to a low couch. He was sound asleep before he touched it.

It was dusk when Theseus woke, and a slave was entering with a flaring clay lamp. He sat up on the couch. His body had stiffened, the wounds were
throbbing and swollen, and he felt a ravenous hunger. But no food was offered him.

“Come, Northman,” rolled the deep voice of Talos. “The gods are waiting for you, in the sacred hall.”

Still naked, Theseus rose and followed the brass man again. Flaming wicks lit the way. Once more they traversed the maze of courts and corridors and stairs, bewildering with the afterthoughts and alterations and
additions of a thousand years. Theseus glimpsed slaves, kneeling as they passed, and said to Talos:

“Tell them to follow me.”

“That is forbidden,” the brass man rumbled. “Only the royalty, nobles, warlocks, and rich may enter the hall of the double ax.”

“It is forbidden no longer,” Theseus said. “For I am claiming the throne for the people of Crete, and I want them to be present. Bid them follow—all
the artisans and slaves.”

Talos looked back, his bright simple face perplexed.

“Minos would not like that.”

“But I am the new Minos,” Theseus said, “and I command it.”

Still doubtful, the great voice of Talos boomed out the call. Theseus was aware of hushed and apprehensive steps, following behind them.

At last they came into the solemn vastness of the sacred hall, whose huge square columns
were graven with the double ax. Weirdly colored flames leaped above tripod braziers shaped like bulls’ heads. A black-curtained altar was covered with a white cloth, and a polished ancient ax of black obsidian lay upon it. Black-robed priests knelt beside it. Before it, robed in white and black, stood Minos and Daedalus.

Talos halted before them, rumbled:

“Here is Gothung the Northman, who was
today chosen by the Dark One to take the throne. He is ready.”

Standing beside him—suddenly extremely conscious of his empty-handed nakedness—Theseus looked into the face of Minos. It smiled back at him, dimpling, and the small eyes, in the flickering light of the braziers, seemed to twinkle with an expansive merriment. Minos looked past Theseus, at the slaves and artisans filing silently into
the hall. He chuckled, and his silken voice said: