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furies here! They must be kept like watchdogs by some greater power, for a
whole swarm of them now came soaring and snarling out of the depths of the
Cave.
It crossed Jeremy's mind to wonder if these might even be counted as domestic
animals and thus be readily subject to his control. He wasn't going to find
out, and, in fact, he immediately forgot the question, for the sight and sound
and smell of them had triggered a killing rage in both of the entities
inhabiting Jeremy Redthorn's frame. His or the Dark Youth's left arm lashed
out like a striking snake and clutched a handful of mousy skin, stopping the
creature in midflight. It screamed while its whips flailed at him, with no
more effect than on a marble statue.
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Fred Saberhagen - The Book of the Gods 1 - The Face of Apollo
A moment later, the Lord of Light had seized a wing root in each hand and was
ripping the beast apart, with no greater effort than Jeremy Redthorn would
have used tearing paper. A maimed body fell to the
Cave floor, and black blood splashed and flew. Only later did Jeremy realize
how his face and clothing had been splattered.
Then he seized one of the dealers in human souls and bodies by his neck, took
one long-clawed fury foot in his other hand, and used the talons to obliterate
the slaver's face.
Again Jeremy stalked forward. Now he was approaching the first internal
barrier he'd encountered since entering the Cave, a gate of wood or metal that
was already standing open. The smoke of pungent incense rose from a wide,
shallow bowl supported atop a tall three-legged stool of black wood.
The debauched priestess who mouthed the prophecies swayed on her three-legged
stool, staring with drugged eyes at the newcomers. An aging woman, her sagging
breasts exposed, a tawdry crown poised crooked on her head.
She reacted violently to the presence of Apollo/Jeremy. "Lord of Light, I know
you! You come to die again!"
Jeremy/Apollo ignored the nonsense she gibbered at him and stalked on, leaving
behind him a growing pandemonium. The captives that he'd freed would have to
see to themselves now his own real task lay ahead.
On he stalked, and down.
Once more a single figure, this time a man, confronted him. And out of memory
new material suddenly emerged: At the inner entrance to the Cave there ruled,
partly by cunning, partly by tradition, the
Gatekeeper a human remembered only vaguely by Apollo and of whose actual age
even Apollo could not be sure. But it was hard for even Apollo to remember a
time when there had been no Gatekeeper at the Cave.
Could it possibly have been the same individual, all that time?
. . . quite old in his appearance, and of a lean and vicious aspect, who a few
months ago, at the time of the great duel, had commanded the debased remnant
of the traditional attendants of the shrine.
In Jeremy's left eye he looked even worse.
And now he himself hardly ever emerged from the Cave but rather shunned the
sunlight.
He had wisps of graying hair, once red, curling around a massive skull. Once
he had been impressively muscled, and still his body possessed wiry strength,
fueled by meanness. Large portions of his tawny skin, wherever it was visible,
were covered with tattoos. Once there had been rings in his ears and nose, but
now only the hard-lipped scars remained.
He was cynical and evil but in his heart he was still waiting for the true god
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to reappear.
For almost as long as Apollo could remember, the world had accepted the
Gatekeeper (really a succession of Gatekeepers, the god supposed) as chief
overseer of all sacrifices at the shrine. The only ones in which he took keen
interest were those in which a human was set before the God of the
Underworld the immolation of youth or maiden, their nude bodies painted, then
carried, drugged and helpless, down into the darkness, where they were bound
to their log frames and left to whatever might come for them.
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