Phthor by Piers Anthony Read Free Book Online Page A

irregularly descending branches, and the stalagmites had roots that twisted in widely varied configurations. The colors, too, were divergent, with glowing blue and pink stripes augmenting the green moss. Even Arlo could see that this represented a kind of history of the cavern: the glow had not always been green, but only in the developing columns were the prior types recorded.
    “Father!” Arlo cried. His arms and legs were numb, his body sore from the bruising run, but that hardly mattered.
    Aton turned. He was fifty-two years old, dark-bearded and powerful, with a certain aura of determination or ruthlessness about him. He punched his fist into Sleipnir’s nose, his way of patting the animal. The creature was so tough it could not feel a light touch. Aton’s single eye looked inquiringly at Arlo.
    “Girl. Wounded. Dying. Blood. Help,” Arlo said between gulps of air.
    Aton put one hand on Sleipnir’s back and vaulted aboard. This vigor did not seem strange to Arlo; his father had always been an active man, and only recently had Arlo outgrown him. Aton leaned over, caught his son under the arms, lifted him and deposited him on the rear segment of the steed. Sleipnir didn’t notice; all he cared about was that Aton was riding him.
    There had never been another human being in this region of the caverns other than Aton, Coquina, Arlo, Doc Bedside, and the zombies. Yet Aton hadn’t hesitated. “Where?” Aton asked.
    “In my gardens.”
    Aton had never been to the gardens, though he knew where they were, because the way was blocked by so many animate and inanimate threats. Aton did not have the aid of Chthon on that route; it was as though the god wanted no one but Arlo there. But of course Arlo had explored all the tunnels and knew his way through safely, regardless of Chthon’s influence.
    Aton guided Sleipnir according to Arlo’s instructions, and they thundered toward the gardens. Even on this fleet mount, it took some time because the safe route was circuitous. Afraid to contemplate what they would find there, Arlo talked with his father: a thing he seldom did. It was not that there was any bad feeling between them, but that there was inadequate feeling. Arlo really did not know his father well. “What is a minionette?” He had asked this question of Bedside, but received no satisfactory answer. Of course a minionette came from planet Minion; why should that be significant? Why did she equate with sirens, Valkyries, and death?
    Aton’s back stiffened, and Arlo knew that he had made a mistake. As the second son, substitute for the favored firstborn, he dared not presume. He had supposed this to be a special case. “Who spoke to you of that?”
    “Old Doc Bedside.”
    Aton grunted contemptuously, but he relaxed a bit. “What did he tell you?”
    “Only that I was quarter-minion. My grandmother—”
    “Enough!”
    Arlo was glad enough to let it drop. Aton was a man of violent temperament, and he had a sadistic streak. It was evident that Bedside had been sowing dissent, in his subtle fashion. Time for a change of subject.
    “How did you get Sleipnir?”
    Aton relaxed again. “That was Bedeker’s doing.” He always called Doc Bedside that. “He and I went exploring in the early days, but we were careless and got trapped by a caterpillar. He tried to distract it while I pounded a hole in the wall, but it stabbed him with its tail and incorporated him.”
    Arlo knew how that worked. The long caterpillars rammed their tail-spikes through the quarry, inhaling the victim through the middle. In moments, special substances or nerves extended into the victim’s body, and instead of dying, he was reanimated as a segment of the creature, marching in unison with the other segments. In due course, the segments of the latter end of the creature were slowly drained of their resources, going to sustain the forepart, shrinking until they were little more than walking lumps. The caterpillar never ate with its mouth;