A Rose-Red City

Thirteen

It was a dark and noisome hole, blackness with a small patch of light by the door, and they were all so filthy that they were invisible; but they huddled together for the comfort of human contact and watched the light, waiting for the shadow of a horned head to block it out, and listening to the distant murmur of… of running water?

Then Jerry realized that the doorway was not in the center of a wall, but in one corner.

“We made it!” he yelled, and suddenly started to shake. He thought he might be going to throw up, but he tottered over to the door and then outside, and was momentarily blinded by the sun glaring off the pool— and someone out there on watch gave a great howl of welcome.

He took two steps and threw himself into the water.

It had been foul, slimy and repellent three days ago. Now it was the most blissful experience he could remember. He dunked and thrashed and finally stood up, waist deep, to watch as four other people, black with the horrible ooze of the Labyrinth, came tumbling out the doorway and followed him in with monstrous splashes. And there was Sven… and in through the gate poured Tig and Marcus and Jean-Louis…

The rescue team had been waiting two days. They had cleaned out the building and the spring itself inside it, so that there was a flow of clean water coming down the rockface, and each of the arrivals in turn could go in and rinse off in sweet fresh water and then emerge into the sunlight once more, swathed in great towels and grinning insanely.

There were hugs and kisses. There was Ariadne being introduced to Clio, small and childlike and shy, and to the vociferous blond bulk of Helga. There were bone-creaking embraces and rib-breaking thumps from Sven and Tig. There were Meran clothes for all of them in blues and reds and grays. And outside, later, beside a huge wagon and three tents, a picnic was spread on the grass under blue sky and a gentle breeze of warm and fragrant fresh air.

Jerry sat beside Ariadne. “That’s twice you have defeated the Minotaur,” he said. “I was sent to rescue you, you know— it’s humiliating to have you constantly saving me like this.” She smiled and said softly, “I promise never to do it again.” Then she started to shiver. He took her hand. “All right?” She nodded bravely. “As long as you don’t wave a gin bottle near me… yes, I think so.”

“They brought no wine or beer,” he assured her. “I asked Helga. The Oracle foresaw this. Spring water for everyone.” She looked relieved, but he was worried by her trembling and paleness. Nor was he happy about Tig and the others. They had been boisterous in their greetings, but not boisterous enough. Their eyes wandered while they spoke; they knew something he did not.

They nibbled cold chicken and crusty bread and quaffed spring water. When they had finished, Jerry took Ariadne’s hand in his, and they looked at each other with doubtful smiles. Her decision was coming— the way to Mera was open, and the children could not go, wherever the children now were. She would come to Mera, obviously. He would take her to the house of the Oracle. What then? She would refuse to stay without the children. He did not even know if he could go with her, back to the real world, did not know if that was permitted— did not know if he could bear to give up Mera. Surely there could be no greater sacrifice than that, and surely it would take a terrible love to need it.

Three enormous Percherons were hobbled nearby, and the picnic was just ending when a distant cannonade announced the return of Killer on a fourth, cantering back up the valley. He threw himself off, narrowly missing the food, and there were more hugs and more kisses— and an instant feeling that now things were about to happen.

“Have you spoken again to the Oracle?” Jerry asked and saw an invisible visor drop over Killer’s face.

“Briefly,” he said. “And?”

Killer glanced around, and everyone was listening. “We can pack up and prepare to go,” he suggested, and his tone hinted that there were other possibilities.

“How close are they?” demanded Tig, whose great square beard and shoulder-length ringlets were strangely black in this Outside sunlight, not blue as Jerry usually saw them.

“About thirty minutes,” Killer said, “just around the next bend. Twelve of them.”

“Twelve of who?” Jerry asked, noting the gleams in the men’s eyes.

“Soldiers,” Killer said. “Your friends. We strangers at the shrine have been reported, so they are coming to collect more Minotaur fodder.” His teeth gleamed as he returned grins from Tig, Sven, Jean-Louis, and Marcus.

Jerry looked apologetically at Ariadne. “Not more fighting?” she said in dismay.

“What do you mean ‘more’?” Killer snapped. “We haven’t had a decent brawl in ages. Right?” Right, said everyone else.

“There are only twelve of them,” he continued, “and there are… six of us?” Jerry sighed. “Six of us,” he agreed.

Killer chuckled and thumped his shoulder and headed for the wagon to unload swords. Jerry turned to Ariadne. “I have no choice,” he said quietly. “Killer has the wand. They will fight whether I go or not. I can’t let five friends go against twelve, now, can I?” She shook her head and said she supposed not.

Killer came around then, handing out scabbards with huge and heavy bronze swords. He paused to give Carlo a contemptuous stare. “I still have to settle with you. It will have to wait until after this, though… unless you would care to join us?”

“Just a minute, friend Killer,” Jerry said firmly. “I made a truce with Carlo, and we’re not back to Mera yet.” Killer glared at him, threw down the swords, spread green wings as he put fists on hips. “I was not a party to any truce,” he said truculently.

Jerry knew he must not lose his temper; with Killer that was always a mistake, and the others were all listening. “I had the wand at that time,” Jerry said.

Killer frowned and gave a very small and very reluctant nod. Then the familiar devilish glint came into his eye. “If I give you my promise not to settle with this Carlo maggot, then will you keep the promise you gave me?”

Jerry had to think back to that night at the cottage— his promise to Killer had been for when Ariadne and the children reached Mera safely, so it was not valid and would never be. He glanced around at the ring of puzzled faces and down at Carlo, casually stretched out on the grass, his brown face distorted by those hideous swellings where Jerry had clubbed him, still looking as though they had been caused only a few minutes before. This was one way to make reparation.

“Whatever you want,” he said, and Killer’s teeth flashed in triumph. He glanced down at the kid. “You are forgiven, then, maggot,” he said and turned away.

“You have a spare sword?” Carlo asked, and Killer stopped and turned around slowly. “Yes. Ever used one?”

“No,” Carlo said, climbing to his feet. “What about armor?”

“Just shields. We don’t need armor against bronze, the clothes’ll do.” Killer’s eyes were shining— a new recruit?

Carlo studied him for a moment. “Can I try one against you, just so I’m sure?” Killer was rarely at a loss for words, but for a moment the challenge silenced even him. He looked at Jerry out of the corner of his eye. “Can I trust him?”

“No.” Then Jerry wished he had not said that, for it only made matters worse. True, the Meran costume was safer and certainly lighter and more comfortable than any armor ever made in the Bronze Age, but injuries were possible, and to stand still for a free sword stroke from a potential enemy would be the act of a maniac. Slowly Killer stooped, picked up a sword, pulled it from the scabbard, and handed it hilt-first to Carlo. He folded his arms under his cape and braced his shoulders. “Anywhere but the eyes,” he said and waited.

Carlo tried a couple of trial swings, scowling at the weight. “Head all right?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

Ariadne took Jerry’s hand, and the circle of onlookers grew even more tense.

Get on with it! “Fine,” Killer said.

Carlo shifted his grip and tried again. “Is it all right to use two hands on this thing?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Killer said. His forehead was getting shiny.

The swordsman glanced around. “Stand back and give me room?” The onlookers backed away, all frowning angrily… and with no warning at all Carlo swung the sword one-handed, in a sunbeam flash aimed at knocking off Killer’s cap. The sword bounced, Carlo staggered, and Killer dropped to his knees with a grunt, the cap still on his head. Then Killer was up, rubbing his neck and looking dazed; Carlo was flexing his fingers and frowning.

“It’s seven then?” Killer asked.

The boy shrugged. “Bug off,” he said, threw down the sword, and walked away.

And Killer’s face went bright red as the onlookers first gasped and then burst into roars of laughter.

Jerry was puzzled. He had still not worked out what Carlo was or what happened in his head, not even after three days in a dungeon with him. And that had been no beginner’s first attempt with a sword.

“Carlo?” he said, and Carlo stopped and looked around. “Please?” Jerry said. “We’d like to have you with us.”

The boy stared at him for a moment, looking puzzled. Then he shrugged and nodded to Killer. “Okay— seven,” he said.

Killer forced a smile and held out a hand. Carlo ignored it, stepping by him to pick up the sword and buckle on a scabbard.

“Awful weapon,” he remarked to Jerry. “I’m better with a machete.”

Jerry lay in the bottom of the wagon with the five others, while Killer drove it down the track to meet the Cretan militia as they came slouching around the bend. The whole affair seemed a quite unnecessary and very stupid piece of bravado, as Graham Gillis had pointed out vehemently when offered a part. He had stayed with the women and ignored Killer’s sneers, which probably showed that he had more real courage than Jerry did.

Then the wagon reached the soldiers; as the leader shouted for it to halt, Killer cracked his whip over the team. The wagon lurched forward, the soldiers scattered, and then the Merans leaped down from their wooden horse, the Greeks among the Trojans.

It was short and relatively bloodless, as Jerry had known it would be; the Cretans were not fighting for faith, farm, or family and had no yearning for glory. The nine survivors fled off down the valley, strewing armor and shields behind them. Two others were handed a towel and told to make bandages out of it, being within translation range of the wand, then left where they were while the Merans loaded their booty in the wagon and prepared to head back to the encampment. The Cretans, Jerry recalled, had been a peace-loving people. One of them was dead, killed by Carlo.

Jerry climbed to the driver’s bench beside Killer, who had produced Venker’s silver sword, taken on the Cretan leader, and accepted an almost instantaneous surrender. The wagon lumbered up the hill at a slow pace.

“Right, friend Achilles,” Jerry said. “What was all that for?”

Grinning, Killer leaned down and produced the Cretan leader’s boar-tooth helmet. “For your collection, friend Jeremy.”

Jerry took it and thanked him solemnly; a Meriones helmet would be the pearl of any helmet collection, and he knew he would be greatly excited to own it when he had time to reflect. In the back of the wagon, Sven and Tiglath were gloating over matched sets of six swords and six shields apiece.

“What else?” Jerry demanded. “You weren’t by any chance getting practice with that silver sword, were you?” Or just testing himself after a long idleness?

Killer kept his eyes on the horses and said nothing. “You have not told me the whole truth!” Jerry insisted.

Killer put an arm around him. “You never tell lies to your friends, Jerry?”

“Of course not!” Killer grinned sideways at him, disbelieving. “I will not hold you to your promise, Jerry. That Carlo maggot is not worth a promise— you saw that he killed one? Bastard! I know that you love me as a friend and show that love as best you can. So you can forget your promise, and I shall pray to Eros for you.” Sven and Tig were now discussing possible trades to make a single matched set of twelve. Jean-Louis and Marcus were comparing helmets and greaves. Killer had no use for booty, or his house would be full of it. Killer collected bodies. Live bodies.

“That was a promise,” Jerry said. “But now it is a deal. I hold you to it; tomorrow at dusk, at your house. Now tell me the rest of the story!”

Killer still did not look straight at him, but his arm tightened. “Thanks,” he said. “That will be very nice.”

“Then tell me why you are trembling.”

“Anticipation!” Killer snapped; but he took his arm away.

Jerry had moved to sit near the back of the wagon with Ariadne, who was pale and shivering. The rest of the company sprawled along the sides, flanking a jingling, clinking jumble of tents and armor heaped in the middle. Killer had called Marcus to sit up on the driver’s bench with him, and they were deep in talk. It was strange that Killer had brought Clio and Helga along, probably an order from the Oracle, but perhaps it was only the presence of women that was subduing the raucous male buffoonery Jerry would have expected. The four great horses leaned against the yokes, and the wagon rumbled off downhill, one direction being as good as another for a trip to Mera.

Directly across from Jerry was Maisie, looking very cute in a gray Meran costume, her cap perched jauntily on her golden hair, and managing a few weak smiles when she caught his eye. She no longer seemed to be worrying that a visit to Mera would imperil her soul, not after meeting Asterios. Beside her Gillis looked absurd in his old Outside clothes, the long-suffering blue suit he had insisted on retrieving. He scowled continuously.

Carlo, beside him, still wore his customary sulky expression, bony arms protruding from his cape and crossed on uplifted knees. He had not joined in the joviality that had followed the battle, the loud release of tension. Once Jerry offered him a smile and got a hint of a one-finger gesture. The truce, if not over, was wearing very thin.

“Tell me about that red-headed man,” demanded Ariadne quietly. “Sven?” said Jerry, and told what he could remember— Denmark about tenth century. Sven had never gone aviking, being an oldest son, and had missed most of the land battles of his day; he had been rescued when he was in his sixties, although now his beard was as red again as ever, and he seemed no more than thirty at the most. He reveled in combat, making up for his wasted, peaceful youth— just a big, rowdy boy at heart, Jerry said. Helga was Norwegian, he thought, a couple of centuries later, but they were a finely matched set, those two.

Tiglath, from Nineveh, was a more interesting character, but his story would have to wait, because he was sitting next to Jerry.

The wagon rocked its way around the bend where the great battle had been fought, and the valley opened out into flatter and lusher land that had not been there before. The sun seemed to be losing its skin-removing virulence, and he thought the air was taking on a gentler, Meran flavor, an odor of nearby sea and richer grass.

Tig and Sven and the others were avoiding his eye again. Killer’s hair had turned midnight blue, and Tig’s beard. Jerry was just about to comment Then there it was.

“Look!” he said, feeling a lump in his throat as the wagon rolled out onto a green plain, and the hill city came into view on their right, gleaming rose-red behind its circling wall.

“It’s beautiful!” Ariadne said. “Just as lovely as you said— no, better. Oh, Jerry!” She seemed to have lost her craving; the paleness and quivering had vanished as fast as the Cretan landscape.

“The top of the hill is the house of the Oracle,” he said, raising his voice like a tour guide. “Do you see it, Maisie?” She smiled in astonishment. “It’s a church,” she said. “The one with the red spire, you mean?” Gillis gave Jerry a suspicious glare. “Is this another magic trick?” he asked.

Jerry laughed. ” ‘Fraid so. I see something that looks like Stonehenge, a circle of big slabs on end with others laid across them. I was stationed near Stonehenge in the war, and it impressed me. Killer, I know, sees a Greek temple, with Doric pillars. So Maisie sees a church, what do you see?” The big man snorted. “It looks like a jail to me.”

“Ariadne?”

“More like Killer’s view, I think,” she said hesitantly. “A circle of columns with an entablature?” He wasn’t at all sure what that was. “Killer’s is rectangular. Yours sounds more like my Stonehenge with a bit of culture added to it.” Carlo angrily refused to give his opinion and looked worried.

“There’s the gate,” Jerry said, feeling absurdly excited. “North Gate, of course…” The gate was closed.

He had never seen that before, and, even as the shock registered, the wagon rumbled to a halt. The men were glancing at one another, looking sick. Even Helga… only Clio caught Jerry’s eye and she was as puzzled as he, and worried.

What the hell was going on?

Then Killer rose and turned, glanced over the passengers, and said, “Jerry?” and tossed him the wand.

Jerry caught it and stood up also. “Will you please…” he said, and then Tig had risen as well, enormous Tig, and placed a blue-furred hand on his shoulder.

“We all had to promise, Jerry,” Tig murmured in his deep voice. “And we had to promise to keep you out also.” What could be seen of his face was grave and worried.

Cold shivers crawled deep inside. “Out of what?” Jerry demanded. Tig quietly pushed, and Jerry crumpled back to his seat.

Killer jumped down from the bench and walked out over the grass, carrying a sword which flashed brilliantly silver white in the sunlight. He stopped and looked back, hesitated. Then he laid the sword down and stripped off his clothes.

“Jerry?” Ariadne said. “I know he’s a show off, but what is this?” He knew now, but he wasn’t going to say. Which of them?

Killer picked up the sword again, swung it a couple of times. Then he put his hands on his hips and looked at the wagon.

“Asterios!” he roared.

“Jerry?” Ariadne demanded again, gripping his arm tightly.

“Wait and see,” Jerry said. His lips were dry, and his heart was pounding.

“Asterios!” Killer repeated. “I know you for what you are. Come forth!”

Gillis stood up.

Maisie looked up, reached up— and recoiled, staring. She jumped to her feet, threw her arms around him, and somehow forced him back to his seat.

“ASTERIOS COME FORTH!” Killer yelled once more.

Gillis tried to rise, and Maisie held him down, whimpering. Ariadne was clinging almost as tightly to Jerry, staring across at her former husband and shivering.

Again Killer made his call.

Carlo lurched to his feet and jumped over the side of the wagon to land on the balls of his feet, crouched like a wrestler.

Maisie screamed and then burst into tears.

Carlo put his head back and roared. His head was growing

Ariadne clutched Jerry even more fiercely and buried her face against him. He struggled to free himself and tried to stand up, Tig held him down with one hand.

“We all promised, Jerry!” he repeated. “We must not help him.”

“But why?” Jerry squealed. Carlo was no longer visible— it was Asterios now, still swelling and growing, ripping the remains of its clothes from the inhumanly hairy, inhumanly bulky body, the animal head directed toward Killer.

“It is the only way Killer can return,” Tig said grimly. “He was in the cottage when you issued the invitation.”

“But Killer went back!” Jerry noticed that his own voice was almost a scream. “I sent him back!” Sven turned around from studying the Asterios transformation to look at Jerry. “Killer has not been back in Mera. He was allowed about this close. Clio and Helga came out and nursed him back to health.” Oh no! This was a long way from the center of faerie… “How long did that take?”

“About a year,” Sven said. “North Gate has been closed all that time.”

“He said he’s talked to the Oracle!” The red-gold head was shaken gently. “He lived in a tent out here. He hasn’t been into the city. He hurt bad for months, Jerry.” God… Jerry buried his face in his hands. Then he looked up, smelling the hateful stench, seeing the enormous bulk of Asterios looming at the side of the wagon.

Tig said, “Once he started to get better, you’d be astonished how many people came out to visit him. They had to be lowered down the wall in a basket, hundreds.”

“Clio…” said Jerry, trying to imagine this strange un-Meran situation. “Girls, I suppose?” Tig smiled grimly. “Clio understands. All sorts of people, just for friendship— hundreds. Mera showed how much it appreciates him, Jerry.”

“But what happens now?”

“We watch,” Tig said. “Your friend Gervasse has talked to the Oracle many times. They worked this out. This is a better place to fight than the Labyrinth.”

“Watch?” Jerry wailed. “Is that all we can do?” Sven nodded. “It must be Killer, and no man may help him.”

The change was complete. Asterios threw its head back and bellowed, the terrible roar that had echoed around the cottage and through the Labyrinth and which now came rolling faintly back from the walls of Mera.

Asterios charged. Killer crouched, waiting, watching the horns approach— then leaped aside, swinging the sword. Both seemed to have missed, and Asterios came to a stop, swung around, and bellowed thunderously again.

“I made no bleeding promise!” Jerry squirmed against that clamp on his shoulder and was forced down again.

“You stay there, or I’ll wrap that wand around your neck!” Tig said, sounding as though he meant it.

Asterios charged again across the turf. This time Killer ran also, and they rushed headlong at each other— and Killer jumped, swinging the sword beneath him, and the monster threw itself flat. Then it was up again before Killer could recover his balance, incredibly fast, whirling around and grabbing for him with its great gorilla arms. Killer’s sword flashed, and the two jumped apart simultaneously, blood streaming from the Minotaur’s side. The watchers cheered, but Killer did not take his eyes off his enemy.

Asterios started to back away, seeking to gain ground for another charge, and Killer paced after. Even with the length of the sword, the short man’s reach was hardly greater than those arms and if Asterios ever got its hands on him…

Carlo… why Carlo? Jerry had expected Gillis.

Asterios lunged, reaching out his arms and then whipping them back to safety before the flash of Killer’s sword, while the deadly horns scythed at human flesh. Killer was fast, superbly fast, but he did not have the brute reflexes of the monster.

Or the reflexes of a demon. A demon in daylight was not at its best, but it was still a demon.

Again they paced, the Minotaur seeking ground, Killer denying it. Another lunge, another escape. Now the Minotaur advanced, head down, and Killer retreated.

Asterios rushed, the sword flashed and thudded against the massive bony head, while the arms below reached out. Killer jumped back, stumbled, struck again. That massive skull was impenetrable, it was both shield and weapon; the arms below were vulnerable, but also certain death if they ever connected with the man. There was no science for fighting Mino-taurs— Killer was inventing it as he went along. Round and round, to and fro… he wiped his forehead with his free arm. The monster was bleeding from the gash on its side, and several cuts on its head were streaming blood also, but in a battle of endurance it would be Killer whose mortal flesh would fail first.

Helpless, Jerry squirmed, and the others cursed and ground their teeth beside him. Gods were being invoked: Thor, Hercules, Mars, Jesus, and Medinet Habu.

“What happens if he loses?” Jerry demanded. “Then it comes for the rest of us?” Even under the blue thatch, Tiglath’s face looked sick. “No. It is Killer it wants. If we stay in the wagon we are safe.” Somehow that made it worse.

Then the Minotaur bellowed and charged, thrusting with its horns— right, left, right— and Killer backed frantically, thrashing at the head with his sword, seeking an eye, severing an ear, fighting now for space, and being steadily pushed back across the blood-spattered grass. One horn caught the sword, twisting it sideways, momentarily out of play. The arms reached for Killer, and he squirmed out of reach, teetered off balance, and was caught by the horns.

The massive head swung up with a roar of triumph; Killer went spinning through the air like a ball in one direction, and his sword went flashing away in the other.