The Reign of Wizardry (6 page)

“But how,” demanded Theseus, “do you make any money out of that?”

The small black eyes of Amur shone hungrily. “The Minoan games are divided into nine contests,” his swift whisper rasped. “One for each year of the cycle. You must face three wild bulls, three fighting men, and three gods. And it is a custom of the nobles and the merchants of Crete to place wagers on each contest.”

Amur
laced gold-ringed fingers across his belly. “How an unarmed man can win those nine contests, I don’t know. That is your problem. But Minos must believe you can. And my black Nubian will win all that is wagered that day!”

Theseus turned slowly from Amur to Phaistro. The purple-robed admiral had been looking on, silently. His thin face seemed pale, tortured.

“What do you say of this, admiral?”
demanded Theseus. “Minos has ordered you to kill me.”

Amur laid a cold hand on the arm of Theseus, and rasped an answer for the admiral: “He will do as I request, Captain Firebrand. I am no warlock, yet even I possess a certain power. The noble Phaistro will do whatever I ask, even if I require him to cut off his hand. Is that not true, admiral?”

The red lips of Phaistro trembled, and he nodded
unhappily.

The cold, bright snake-eyes of Amur came back to Theseus. “You see, Captain Firebrand, my scheme has neglected nothing. Now give up your sword to the admiral, and come aboard my galley—and soon you will be mounting the gilded throne of Minos!”

Theseus reached for the hilt of the Falling Star. He drew the long blade from its sheath, and looked down into the gleaming mirror of its polish,
and saw there the sad face of his father.

It was on that solemn night, many years ago, when proud Athens had bowed at last to the ships and the wizardry of Knossos. His father, the Achean king, was wearily pacing his
long stone-flagged hall in the simple palace upon the Acropolis. Faintly they could hear the women, in their quarters, wailing for the men who had died that day.

Theseus followed
the tired limping steps of Aegeus. “I know you had to yield, father,” he said. “I saw the blue shining bolts that struck down your captains. I know your men fled from the sorcery of Crete. The truce saved Athens from being burned, saved your people from being carried off to feed the evil god of Knossos.

“But I am not going to give up, father!”

The wounded king paused and looked down at him.
“But you … you are only a slip of a lad, Theseus—you can’t well defy an empire whose ruler is a god.”

“Yes, I can, father. I am going away tonight, toward the far lands that are still free from Crete. I shall train myself to be brave and strong, and grow up to be a fighting man. And I shall make war on Minos, so long as I live!”

A smile came to the king’s haggard face. “I am glad, my son,” Aegeus
said softly. “You have made me happy again. And I shall give you my sword to carry with you—if you are strong enough to lift the stone where it is hidden from the Cretans.”

The king limped to point out the heavy flagstone. Theseus eagerly caught the edges of it, and pried and strained until at last it turned over. His father took up the sword, and gave it to him, and he admired the bright color
of its steel.

“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.

T
HE 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 urgently. “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.