Scarlet From Gold (Book 3) (16 page)

Marco gave a shrug and wheeled Iasco’s cart towards the door.  A doorman seemed ready to turn them away, but Ophiuchus gave a little wave of her hand, and the man’s face went blank, as he held the door open for them.

Inside there was a ballroom, where a band played soft, elegant music as a handful of couples danced.  Across the hall there was a dining room, where many others were eating.  Most of the men in the dining room, as well as those on the dance floor, wore the same black and red uniforms they had seen at the gate, and patrolling the streets.

“Will you dance with me, Marco?” Ophiuchus asked softly.

Marco looked at her in surprise, and saw a wanting look in her eyes, a plea for him to whirl with her around the dance floor.  He parked Iasco’s cart against the wall of the ballroom, then awkwardly stepped onto the dance floor, and gingerly placed a hand on the spirit’s waist, as she faced him, and they began to dance.

“I’ve never danced before,” she told Marco, her eyes sparkling.  “I’ve listened to women talk about dancing for hundreds of years, but I never have done this!

“Thank you,” she told Marco, and she closed the distance between their bodies, as she pressed herself against his and rested her head on his shoulder.  “Now, no matter what, I’ll always have the memory of dancing.”

“You could dance a hundred dances a day, as beautiful as you are; you’d not lack partners, better ones than me,” Marco told her, confused by her wistful tone.  “I’ll come dance with you on the island when all of this is over,” he promised.

“That would be wonderful, were it possible,” Ophiuchus answered.

“Why’s a fine woman like you wasting time with a boy like this?  You need a man to take care of you,” one of the uniformed officers spoke, having approached unnoticed, as he roughly grasped Marco’s shoulder and pulled the two apart.

Ophiuchus gave an instant shout as her hand parted from Marco’s, while he staggered backwards three steps.

“Leave her alone!” Marco shouted angrily.  The officer was wrapping his arm around Ophiuchus’s waist, pulling her against himself, and there were a trio of other officers standing nearby, grinning and watching.

Marco threw himself back at the officer, only to be punched in the jaw as the man moved with surprising speed and hit him.

Marco shook his head clear as he heard the laughter of the other army officers.   He looked up and saw that Ophiuchus was weakening as she remained separated from his hand.  She was growing older, graying, thinning, and shrinking.

The man who had wanted to dance with her also noticed, and shouted in alarm, hurling her to the floor and backing away from her.

“A witch!  She’s a witch!” he shouted.

Marco rose to his feet and pulled his sword free, causing the three bystanding officers to pull their weapons out as well.  Marco charged at the man who had started the confrontation, and punched him firmly in the face with the hilt of his sword, knocking the man out, and giving Marco a clear path to stoop and grab Ophiuchus’s hand with his golden one.  She sighed in relief, and began to revive immediately.

“Here, take the sword,” Marco handed the sword to her, the weapon in which she had deposited a portion of her own powers on his behalf, allowing her to maintain her strength while separated from him.  He turned and faced the trio of angry officers, making his hand glow brightly as he tried to devise a suitable way to end the confrontation.

“Magic!  He’s a sorcerer!” one of the men shouted loudly as he saw the glow of Marco’s hand.

“Let any weapon used against us cause harm to its own user!” Marco shouted, remembering the curse he had used in Clovis to protect himself and his friends.  He focused his mind on the memory of the arrows that had reversed course in the air to strike their archers, and he imagined swinging swords that flipped around to slice their wielders.

“Careful, careful lads.  Wait for our sorcerer to arrive to handle this,” a voice shouted from the dining room.

“Get Iasco and let’s get going!” Ophiuchus told Marco.  She was fully restored to her old stature and stood directly behind him.  “We have to escape quickly.”

Together, the two of them sidestepped over to the wall where Iasco’s wagon was sitting.  Marco bent and picked up the bundle of cloth off the wagon, then looked around.  There was a door in the wall behind them; he nodded his head in that direction, and saw Ophiuchus’s nod of agreement.  The two of them started running towards the door, but just before they reached it there was a sizzling sound in the air over their head, and a bolt of energy struck the wall in front of them, causing an avalanche of stone and mortar and wooden beams to collapse down in front of them, blocking the exit from the room.

Against a background of dust and screams, Marco turned to see what had happened.  Standing in the middle of the dance floor was a tall man wearing a flowing black robe, a sorcerer.

“That was a clever curse you cast, youngster.  It froze the arms of these common soldiers,” the sorcerer commented.  “And so I hear claims that we have a sorcerer and a witch at loose in the city; I thought we’d scoured the streets pretty well to get rid of such riffraff when we took over management of the place.  And that means that you must be new arrivals, untested and unknown.

“So let’s commence a test!” he declared loudly, as he raised his hand and pointed it not at Marco, but at Ophiuchus.  He shot a bolt of light at the female form.

Before Marco could react, the beam struck at Ophiuchus.  The spirit held the sword that was endowed with her own powers, and used it to divert the beam’s intent.  The red energy struck the beam and splattered away, shards and bits flying in all directions, as the sword itself glowed red with the energy it absorbed while protecting the woman who wielded it.

“How did you do that?” Marco gasped in astonishment.

“I am not without resources,” the spirit grinned at him.  “Let us leave quickly.”

Marco looked at the sorcerer who was assaulting them; the man was gaping in astonishment at Ophiuchus.  “You’re no witch!  You’re a Power!  We’re seeing an assault by one of the mighty, are we?

“Send for Iamblichus!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Now, Marco, let’s go,” Ophiuchus called.  She pointed to the pile of rubble, and Marco saw that though the doorway was blocked, the broken wall had a hole large enough for them to escape through.  He climbed awkwardly up the uneven debris, and ducked through the hole, then jumped down to the floor of the undamaged hallway beyond.

Ophiuchus followed him into the hallway.  “Come this way, Marco,” she called confidently.

“Where are we going?” Marco shouted as he carried Iasco through the hall and out into a garden behind the restaurant.

“There!” Ophiuchus pointed towards the Acropolis.  “We need to find the Ploutoneion Cave,” she shouted.

“There’s a trail!” Marco pointed at the line of a path that angled up the sheer side of the Acropolis.

Ophiuchus ran in the direction of the foot of the trail, and they rushed past a pair of unprepared priestesses who guarded the entry to the trail.

“Where do you think you’re going?” a loud voice called from the sky.  Marco looked up and saw a sorcerer on the top of the Acropolis step off into thin air and remain calmly in place as he observed the two fleeing figures panting up the path.

“In here, Marco!” Ophiuchus called, as she stepped into a cave opening in the side of the cliff.  The opening had been shaped by men, its corners squared off, with an inscription carved into the stone above the dark space.

The sorcerer above began plummeting downward towards where the spirit and her follower were trying to escape.

“Protect us Marco!” Ophiuchus shouted.

Marco reached the cavern entrance, and placed Iasco’s body down, then raised his golden hand.  He thought of the protective shield that he had seen Iasco’s brother raise to protect the Corsair raiders.  He focused on his hand, and tried to image such a shield raised across the opening of the cavern, then he projected the thought outward through his hand.

The sorcerer who was chasing them, Iamblichus, Marco guessed, stopped his movement through the air, and floated directly in front of the cave.  He grinned at Marco, and raised his hand, just as Marco’s shield flared forth from his own hand and sealed them away from harm.  The sorcerer was uncomfortably close, and Marco could see his face clearly, a face that was coldly handsome, but full of an inhuman cruelty and pride.  The face filled Marco with fear.

Iamblichus’s hand released a number of balls of black and red energy.  They each struck the golden shield Marco had built, and exploded as they made contact.  The floor of the cave shuddered.

“You’re trapped!” the sorcerer outside shouted gleefully.  He looked down at apparent reinforcements who were climbing up the trail.

“There is no escape for you in that cavern, only death,” he said.  “Tell me who you are and why you’ve come here.  Cooperate, and I’ll make sure your death is quick and painless.”

“Come on, Marco,” Ophiuchus tugged on his shoulder.

“Are we going to die?” Marco asked, as he felt his shield start to disintegrate from the damaging energy that the sorcerer was throwing at it once again.

“We are not going to die, but we are going to go join the dead,” she told him gently, as he started to walk backwards with her.

“I’ve been among the dead before,” Marco answered.  “It’s not pleasant.”

“Death is neither good nor bad; it is simply a part of the world.  But that being,” she pointed back at the sorcerer, “that being is evil.

“Here, this is the way to Persephone’s Gate,” she led Marco back into the darkness, past two side caves, then to the third one, a narrow side passage, a rough-walled entry that plunged downward at a steep pitch.

Marco heard an explosion, as the sorcerer expended enough energy to obliterate the shield Marco had created for them, and the sound of pursuers entering the cave came echoing towards them.  Marco hurried his pace to stay close to Ophiuchus and to avoid the pursuit.

They crossed over a wide crack in the stone of the Acropolis, and Marco felt a sudden chill, a psychic chill as well as a physical one, and he knew that they were approaching the entrance to the underworld.

“You’ll be back, and we’ll be waiting!” Iamblichus called down after them, as he stood with his followers at the cave’s narrow entrance.

“Light up your hand,” Ophiuchus told Marco, as the scant illumination from the cave they had left diminished into total darkness.

Marco paused to shift Iasco, and then he lit his hand as it held the deceased priestess; her body shielded the light from his hand from shining upward, so that it illuminated the cave floor they walked on, but cast only reflected light and shadows upward.

“We will come to Persephone’s Gate in just a little bit more, Marco,” Ophiuchus stopped, and looked at him sadly.  “I suspect that I will not be able to go beyond the gate with you.  It will be up to you to carry Iasco to the place where you can restore life to her body, and then bring her back to the world; I long to see my priestess back – whole and healthy – ready to go fight the battle that will defeat evil for another age.”

“Why won’t you come with me?” Marco asked.  “Don’t you know a way for us to get through the gate?” he asked.

“I think I know a way to get you through,” Ophiuchus said, and then her stride seemed to increase, and Marco could not keep up with her to ask further questions for several minutes.

He soon saw Ophiuchus come to a stop, and he saw that she was speaking to a figure, a boy who appeared perhaps slightly younger than Marco himself, except for the pair of wings that protruded from his shoulder blades.

“Who brings light down to the underworld?” the boy asked in a sibilant voice.

“You know who I am, Thanatos,” Ophiuchus answered stoutly.

“We seek entry to the underworld,” she told the boy.

His wings slowly opened and closed.  “The gate will not open for several more weeks.”

“We need to go in now.  A new version of the great evil has emerged, and we must travel to the underworld to use the waters of the River Acheron,” Ophiuchus replied.

“Evil is no concern of mine.  There is only the living and the dead, and you are not among the dead.  You shall not pass this way,” he turned her down.

“Here, hold my hand and we’ll overcome him,” Marco.

“There is no overcoming death,” Ophiuchus answered.  “Though there may be a bargain available to cause death to retract its claims,” she said after a pause.

“What bargain do you offer?  What can you give us that would be a worthy sacrifice on your part?” Thanatos asked, his dark eyes shining brightly with interest.  “You, who have cheated us of our prey so many times with the miracles you carry out through that cult of yours.”

“I would give up something like life,” Ophiuchus answered.

“What would you do?  Would you give us this mortal’s life?  We know that you cannot give up your own life- only a greater Power could separate you from existence,” Thanatos’s wings were beating more quickly now, an indication of his interest in bargaining with Ophiuchus.

“I would surrender my ability to take bodily form; I will become a spirit without shape, and reside in my own temples,” Ophiuchus offered.

The wings held still and quivered, then began to beat very quickly.  “You would no longer wander upon the surface of the world, dispensing health and vitality and assistance to the living?” Thanatos repeated.

“That is correct; I will remain trapped in my temples,” Ophiuchus agreed, “provided that you allow my companions to enter and exit the underworld unmolested and unhindered.”

“My lady!” Marco exclaimed.  “No!  You can’t make such a sacrifice!”

“The deal is done!” Thanatos exclaimed, seemingly worried that Marco’s outburst might persuade Ophiuchus to withdraw her offer.  “I accept your conditions.  You must forego your earthly shape, so that this boy may travel through the underworld.”

“And his companion,” Ophiuchus said immediately.  “The deal includes his companion.”

“There is no companion here!” Thanatos said, his wings rigid with his attention, ”unless,” he left his sentence unfinished as he eyed the bundle in Marco’s arms.