“The Cliffs of Pain,” Hannah explains. “This is where ghosts go to commit suicide. They jump off the bridge I told you about.”
“And they die?” I ask.
Hannah shakes her head. “No, silly. They just go to sleep for a while. Then they wake up and jump again until they work out whatever’s troubling them.”
This place is insane, and I feel it driving me a little mad too. The more I’m down here, the more normal it seems... What happens when I accept this as my reality? What happens when I get back to Earth?
Stop worrying about the future, I scold myself, or there might not be one.
The parched ground climbs toward the cliffs, cutting off our view of the river. Then we’re at the base.
Above, the gem-crusted ceiling shines, reflecting the eerie orange light of the Phlegethon snaking its way through the cavern floor. There’s a couple hundred feet to the clifftop, and however many more to reach Hannah’s bridge.
Up we go, the steep path getting narrower and narrower until it forces Cerberus to slow down or risk falling. Finally, the dog stops. The three thick-furred heads whine, and I can feel the sound vibrating through the flesh of his neck and into my bones.
“He wants us to get off,” Hannah explains. “The path’s too narrow and the extra weight makes him nervous.”
We dismount, giving the dog a few reassuring pats. Below, the centaurs are almost to the bottom of the cliffs. They’re big beasts, not as big as Cerberus, but they’ll still be forced to come up single file—and tread carefully with their hooves.
“It’s not the centaurs you should be worried about,” Ares says. “It’s the harpies.”
He’s right. I count fifteen of them. The grotesque bird-women swoop closer, shrieking and cackling.
“We’d better get ahead of Cerberus,” Ares says. “We can move faster than him here.”
We pick our way up the trail, hoping to reach the top before the harpies reach us, but it’s a fool’s hope. We’re only halfway to our goal when the first harpy wings her way into battle. I start to draw my sword, then think better of it. The sword’s not long enough. What I need is a missile weapon.
What I need is a rock.
I reach into the cliff, my fingers melting through the basalt like butter. With one fluid motion, I pull a chunk free and hurl it at the attacking harpy. It connects with her skull, smashing past the snapping beak. I hear the crunch of bone, the squish of brain, and then the bird-woman spirals to the ground a hundred feet below.
“Great shot!” Ares shouts, but Hannah warns, “Watch out! More coming!”
I tear a pair of stones free, one in each hand, and send two more harpies hurtling down. The remaining bird-women are more cautious now. They hover out of range and call for my blood.
25
THE POWER OF ME
“Get to the top!” I shout. “I’ll hold them off.”
“Don’t let anything happen to Cerberus,” Hannah warns. “We need him to find Hades.”
“I won’t! I promise.”
The witch nods, flaring out her purple cloak. Her body turns to fog, floating straight up.
Ares gives me a confident nod, then races up the narrow trail after Hannah as fast as he can. I realize how much that nod means, and how rarely it must be given. The God of War just told me to “handle it.” He trusts me in a fight. If that wasn’t clear before, it is now, and it fills me with a sense of pride.
That leaves Cerberus. The dog-beast is behind me, and because he’s so big, he can’t maneuver that quickly or that well. He whines, wondering why we’re not following the others.
“You go on, boy,” I tell him. “I’ll be right behind you!” I get out of the dog’s way by digging my fingers into the cliff face and climbing up and around him.
I drop back to the path as a harpy dives toward the hound. I don’t have time to grab a rock, so I aim my wrist at the devil-bird and one of the three crystal daggers magically embedded into my hand shoots out. The missile catches the harpy by surprise, punching through her feathered breast in a hot splash of gore.
That buys me time to pull another pair of rocks free from the cliff. Two more harpies are swooping in, but veer off when they see I’m armed again. I hurl the rocks anyway, missing one and clipping the other, but the damage isn’t enough to drop her.
Eleven harpies left.
I stare at the advancing centaurs. The monstrous cavalry are coming up the path now. Captain Nessus isn’t in the lead, nor are his brothers Democ and Ruvo, which is a shame. It’s a shame because I want them to be. I want it to be them I try my latest idea on, but it can’t wait.
After hurling a few more rocks to keep the harpies away, I tear a larger stone loose. It’s the size of a small boulder, but I don’t send it after the harpies. I send it rolling down the path to crash into the centaurs below.
The centaurs who have no room to dodge.
The boulder smashes through one, sends another spilling off the trail, then repeats the process a few more times before going over the cliff itself. The beast-men cry out in shock and horror, though this quickly turns to cries of rage. A pair of them try to race up, but I send another boulder hurtling down, taking the centaurs out.
Sixteen centaurs left.
Nessus hurls curses. I’m too high up to make out the words, but I’m sure they’re creative. And speaking of creative… I kneel down and punch through the downward path. Cracks appear. I punch again. The black stone shatters, crumbling, creating a deadly gap for anyone attempting to climb from below.
I survey my handiwork, then step back and punch again to widen the gap. I plan to keep doing it until the gap is so wide no centaur can possibly leap it.
Unfortunately, the harpies don’t like that. Before I can complete my plan, claws rake into my back, then fasten onto my shoulders, threatening to lift me up. I slam my left hand into the cliff wall to hang on, and reach back with the right. All I find is feathers. I can’t get a grip.
“Carry you off!” the harpy croaks in her bird-like voice. “Break your bones! Break your bones!”
Now I’m sorry I only covered my chest and shoulders in crystal armor. I don’t feel pain like humans do, but I feel the deep furrows in my back. I feel her talons pressing into my shoulders. The bird-woman’s strength is fierce as she renews her grip, trying to yank me from the cliff. My feet slide along the dusty path, sending dirt and rocks scattering to the distant cavern floor.
Again, I flail with my free hand, this time taking hold of the harpy’s elongated vulture-neck. I squeeze. She lets out a startled squawk. Her beak snaps hard in a violent peck that bounces off the side of my head. My vision swims, but I don’t let go. Her greedy talons sink deeper into my shoulders, cracking the armor there. This isn’t working. I can’t get the right leverage to strangle her. Then I remember I’m gripping the harpy’s neck with my right hand—my dagger hand.
With a thought, I let go and extend the two remaining daggers past my knuckles. I thrash my arm up in a savage half-punch, half-flail. It connects. Greasy monster gore spills down my arm. The claws in my back are gone. The harpy flaps away in a frightened arc, squirting black blood from her ruptured artery like one of my family’s oil wells. She doesn’t fly far before she goes limp, spiraling down to splat on the hard-baked floor.
Ten harpies left.
“Come on!” I dare the remaining bird-women. “Come on, you monsters, you devils! Take me if you can!” I point my dagger hand at them, seeking targets. The flock breaks formation, desperate to fly out of range.
I stand there, gasping, feeling the sticky wetness of my wounds. My back’s bad, I can tell, but it’s my head that worries me. It’s bleeding a lot and a flap of scalp hangs loose. That bitch tried to crack my skull like an egg.
I glance up the path and see Cerberus climb over the top. He’s safe. We’re all safe. For now.
A sudden wave of dizziness washes over me, and I’m glad I have one hand rooted into the cliff wall, or I might have fallen. The
contact with the stone feels good, it feels right. It sends new strength surging through me.
Instead of running up the cliff path, I climb the wall. Straight up, scuttling like a spider. I expect to be attacked, but the harpies have had enough of me. They fly over the clifftop seeking easier victims. Judging by the sounds of battle that follow, I’m guessing they don’t find any.
As I climb, I remember the words I used to say in my dreams as I climbed Mount Olympus:
I am the mountain.
I am one with it.
I am one with the earth.
Saying the words gives me focus. They give me strength. Things are healing inside me, stitching shut, even as my power is breaking loose.
The power of me, the power to be!
There’s no other feeling like it.
26
WAR IS HELL
When I pull myself over the top, I see the cliff is more or less level now, extending for miles to the east and west but breaking up a few hundred feet north where the river cuts a molten path through its base. A matching set of cliffs stand further north, opposite the divide. The air up here is smoky, lit with occasional flurries of hot ash and cinder.
The battle is over. Cerberus shakes two harpies in the jaws of his left and right heads while the central one takes turns biting chunks out of both. Ares has sliced the heads off two more bird-women, and Hannah has stabbed another.
Five harpies left.
They fly overhead, throwing promises of hate and revenge. I look down, two hundred feet below, and see the centaurs have abandoned their attempt to climb the cliff’s damaged trail.
“They’re splitting up,” I tell the Olympians. “The centaurs won’t be coming up the cliff, I took care of that.”
Ares flicks black blood from his golden blade. “They’re trying to outflank us.”
“Should we be worried?” I ask.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how many are left.”
“Sixteen. Two groups of eight, one galloping east, the other west.”
“This is your land. You know where they’re going?” Ares asks Hannah.
Before the witch can answer, Cerberus succeeds in tearing the two harpies in half. Pink guts uncoil, plopping to the ground and writhing like snakes. The smell is horrible, the sight even worse because the harpies aren’t dead… We turn away from the messy feast as the dog-monster gulps and chews the harpies’ guts.
“Well, that was horrible,” I say to no one in particular. “What’s that old expression? ‘War is hell’?”
Ares grunts with amusement then walks off to clean his blade.
Hannah smirks. “Welcome to Tartarus.”
“Um, yeah. Thanks… Thanks a lot! I’m not going to be able to get that scene out of my head, am I?”
“Depends what else you see.” She winks, but doesn’t elaborate. “Anyway, back to the centaurs… You say they’re headed east and west?”
“Yeah.”
“Both directions lead to crossings further down, but they’re miles away, so we shouldn’t be seeing them for a while.”
“They’ll probably show up at the worst possible moment.”
Hannah smirks. “Monsters always do. Looks like you took some wounds.”
“Harpy got me.” I gingerly touch the wound in my scalp and hiss at the pain.
“Bad?”
“I’m healing. That’s why I went up the side instead of taking the path. Thought it’d be quicker—both the healing and the trip.”
Hannah pulls a travel size medical kit out of her magic pouch. “Let me fix you up; things are only going to get tougher from here.”
I wince as she ministers to my wounds. “Ow! Hey, take it easy, will ya?”
“I’m a witch, not a nurse,” Hannah says. “Besides, you get what you pay for.”
I hear a juicy popping sound, and against my better judgment, send my gaze in that direction. Hannah’s familiar is pecking the eyes out of the harpies, doing a happy little raven dance as he gobbles the bloodshot morsels down.
I turn away, then groan as the sudden motion causes Hannah’s hands to slip on my wound.
“Eyes front, soldier!” she teases. “The beasts have their hungers, and we have ours.” She plants a surprise kiss on my lips. “You were brave back there. Very commanding.”
“Yeah? You like that?”
“Uh-huh,” she nods. “You’re turning into a real hero. I knew you had it in you.”
“You did?”
She shrugs. “Ares told me about you. Before, back on Earth. He’s proud of you too. Has been for quite some time.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Yes and no.”
“Why? What’s so bad about it?”
Hannah lowers her voice. “The more he respects you, the more he expects of you. And my cousin can be pretty demanding.”
“And you can’t?” I try to make it a joke, but there’s some truth in it.
She gives my wound one last jab on purpose. “There! All done. You’ll live.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I have a choice.”
“You will,” she promises. “Soon.”
27
THE BRIDGE OF BURNT SOULS
“Suicide Bridge is about a mile this way,” Hannah says, patting Cerberus on the rump. The big dog bounds forward, glad to have room to move.
“Why don’t you send your familiar to scout ahead?”
Hannah points at the five harpies trailing us. “Because of them. Shadow’s a tough old bird, but he’s safer with me.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. So… Suicide Bridge, huh? That’s its name? Not very poetic compared to the Pillars of Ash, Garden of Bone, and all the other weird places you’ve taken me.”
“Suicide Bridge is the slang name,” Hannah explains. “Its formal name is ‘The Bridge of Burnt Souls.’ Why? You like that better?”
“No, not really… Hey, no offense, but your father’s kingdom is pretty morbid.”
She gives me one of her trademark snorts. “At least it’s consistent. Earth is all over the place in its naming conventions—or at least it was, before the Gods War.”
“So about the war,” I ask, “I’m curious… I know what the Theocracy taught me, but I never really got the Olympians’ side of the story.”
Ares gives me a pained look. “You want our side? Zeus should have killed Cronus and the rest of the Titans when he had the chance! But he thought imprisoning them—like how he’d been imprisoned in Cronus’ stomach—would make them suffer more. He wanted to look down at them, trapped in the ice, and gloat. With the Titans as his prisoner, Zeus could show how powerful he was, could always have some trophy to point to.”
“It was a mistake,” Hannah says.
Ares fumes. “It was more than a mistake! It was stupid! And his ego, his vanity, got him killed, and put the rest of us in a world of hurt. Let me give you a little advice, Andrus: If you have the chance to kill your enemy, do it. Don’t play games or try diplomacy. Don’t gloat. Just kill and kill, and kill again! That’s how you end a war, and that’s how you prevent the next one.”
“But wouldn’t that put you out of a job?” I ask.
Ares glares at me, but then claps me on the back and roars laughter instead. “Oh-ho! I like you, Andrus. You’re all right!”
“For a Titan?” I add.
“Yes,” he says, “definitely for a Titan.”
“You didn’t ask me how I handled the enemy back on the cliff.”
“Do I need to? You’re here, and the centaurs aren’t. That tells me all I need to know. You’ve come a long way.”
“For a Titan?”
“No,” he says with a smile. “For my student.”
We walk on for a bit before Hannah holds up a hand to stop us. “Guys, I hate to interrupt your male bonding, but we’re here…” She points past Cerberus to a black bridge, two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide.
The Bridge of Burnt
Souls is made of stone carved from the same basalt as the cliffs. It was likely always part of them rather than added later, though it’s certainly been refined since then. Like the cliff walls, the bridge’s guard rails are carved with skulls, only there’s something different about these. They’re not carvings at all, but real skulls—entire skeletons—burnt into the rock walls of the bridge as decoration. Melted men, women, and children, mouths open, forever fused in agony.
Far below simmers the molten current of the Phlegethon. Hot clouds of ash shot through with cinders blow up from the River of Flame and across the bridge. There are no ghosts here, no lost souls looking to commit spiritual suicide.
There’s something worse… A massive shadow that lurks on the other side. A fifty-foot shadow that steps out of the swirling clouds and into the orange hell-light.
Gyges the Reaver, Gyges the Invincible. The Destroyer. He of the Hundred Hands Who Guards the Gate, and now this Bridge. The Lesser Titan stops halfway across, his fifty heads set in expressions of hate and hunger. “Little brother!” he bellows. “Now you are here. Now, we shall fight!”
28
NO FUTURE WITHOUT A FIGHT
I don’t think anything ever prepares you to face a nightmare. You’d think familiarity would—it’s not like I haven’t seen Gyges before, talked to him, gotten a feel for what the giant is capable of. But I haven’t really fought him, Ares has. And I had run. It was true the War God had told me to, but I had been glad to flee that fight. I’m no coward, but I’m no fool either.
Gyges is a mountain. A mountain of mouths and muscle, and so ugly, so savage, it hurts to look at him. It hurts even more to know he is my brother, a Titan like me, yet not like me.
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