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The reinforced timber doors at the end of the barracks were thrown open and a pair of hoplites strode into the hall. Their armor bore a striking resemblance to Ares’, albeit in bronze. The most notable difference was that they both wore Corinthian helmets with a crimson plume. The soldiers carried spears and bronze shields with the image of a chariot stamped upon them.
The trumpet sounded again and the champions gathered, making their way through the barracks. We fell into line as we went. I followed Tadashii who seemed to have a far better sense of what was going on, probably because he hadn’t spent the last two days unconscious. Besides, if things went to hell, I figured standing behind the champion of Hachiman would be my best bet for survival.
We filed out of the barracks and through the halls of the Areopagus. The corridors were sparsely furnished, with more guards stationed along our path. Who were these men who served the god of war? They seemed human. How long had they been here? Had they been born beyond the veil or was it a job offer? The longer I spent here, the more questions I had.
As we walked, I studied the other champions and quickly realized that they were mostly dressed for combat.
I looked down at my dusty slacks and the same tattered shirt I’d worn into the temple of Apollo, and found myself feeling a little naked. Perhaps this was Knight’s idea of payback. Maybe he had no intention of winning at all; he simply wanted to see me suffer for failing him with the Oracle. If not, why had Knight taken the bullet-proof vest I had worn at Delphi? At least they could have left me with that. From swords to automatic weapons, the other champions were armed to the teeth. All I had was my magic to fall back on and by the look of some of those around me, I wasn’t the only champion with arcane talent.
I definitely needed to learn more about the other champions and quickly. A little forewarning as to what they might be capable of could well save my life in a pinch. It was a shame Knight had been so thorough with his sedative. I suppose he hadn’t wanted an angry wizard waking up on the journey here.
Up ahead, another pair of guards opened a set of double doors and light streamed through them. I raised my hand to shield my face from the glare as we stepped out of the hall and into an arena. Sand shifted beneath my boots as the champions fanned out into a loose-knit circle.
The arena itself was only about a hundred feet wide, but it was entirely surrounded by a fifteen-foot-high wall of stone.
The trumpet that had summoned us from the barracks blew a brief fanfare and ceased. I could feel the weight of eyes on me and looked about. Seeing nothing but stone and sand, I lifted my gaze to the top of the wall, to the stepped seating of an ancient arena. On the bottom tier, nearest to the champions, stood a pavilion filled with the strangest assortment of beings I had ever witnessed. They were each seated on their own raised thrones and regarded the champions with interest.
The other champions noticed them too, and the group slowly gravitated toward the edge of the arena where the observers sat.
A hush fell over the arena and a being in familiar gold armor rose from the center throne and walked to the edge of the arena. Taking off his Corinthian helm, he set it on the stonework.
Ares.
“Welcome one and all to the Grand Trial. I am honored by your presence. I must say, we have a far more diverse group of champions than I had anticipated.”
“We couldn’t let you Greeks have all the fun, now could we?” a voice interjected from beside the god of war. It belonged to a man in a silk robe tied with an obi. His hair was styled in a chonmage identical to Tadashii’s, or perhaps more likely Tadashii’s had been styled after his patron.
“Hachiman,” Ares began, as he turned to face the man seated beside him. “My favorite drinking companion. I can’t say how pleased I am you decided to join us. Amaterasu was a total kill-joy at the last trial. I don’t know that I could have endured another day in her presence. She makes them last forever.”
“Souu deshou?“ the Japanese deity laughed and hefted a goblet to his lips.
Ares turned to face the arena. “As you are all guests in my house, I have a number of rules I expect you to obey. As long as you do so, you will have the protection of my house and are honored guests here.
“First, only Champions are permitted in the field. Any patron who attempts to directly intercede or alter the outcome of the Trial will be cast out. Second, while you are here in my house, you will set aside any grievance or grudge you harbor against any other party who is present. Champion and Patron alike, if you turn your hand against one of my guests, it will fall to me to mete out justice, and I will see it done. Third, once the challenge begins, and only for the duration of each challenge, Champions are not subject to the second rule, and may use any means at their disposal to complete the trial. Are there any questions?”
I had questions, thousands of them, but somehow I didn’t feel like it was in my best interest to ask. I was surrounded by predators and the last thing I wanted to do was display my ignorance and offer myself as an easy target for any of them.
When no one spoke, Ares continued. “Very well. Let us move on to introductions.”
The god of war moved to his right and stood beside a mountain of a man in a white toga. His hair was silver gray, as was the beard that reached halfway down his chest.
“He needs no introduction, but I will give it all the same. He is the supreme ruler of Mount Olympus, son of Cronus, the god of thunder, Zeus.”
No sooner had the words left Ares’ mouth than thunder pealed through the heavens. Zeus knew how to flex; he’d had millennia to practice.
“Father,” Ares said, his voice growing a little sharper.
When the thunder ceased, I looked to Zeus and found him staring straight at me, a wide smile gracing his features. Nothing about it was comforting.
“And as Zeus’ champion, Alexandros,” Ares continued.
Off to my right, the slender man in a white toga and gold girdle stepped forward and raised his hands. Lightning danced across his palms arcing from one outstretched hand to the other. I made a mental note to steer clear of the Greek wizard. Zeus might still be upset about the treatment I’d given his belt but as long as we were beneath Ares’ roof, he was bound by the same rules as the other guests. It was his champion he would have to use to bear out any ill will he still held toward me.
“Where is a king without his queen?” Ares continued. “My mother, queen of Olympus, Hera, and her Champion, Alexa.”
Hera sat on a throne beside Zeus. Her hair shone like the sun. Her blue eyes darted back and forth from champion to champion until she found me, then they narrowed as she stared down her nose at me.
My part in thwarting her at Delphi was clearly still a fresh wound, and I was every bit as disappointed to see her, as she seemed to see me. Her champion, Alexa, carried a staff and wore the same robes Hera’s priestesses had at Delphi. At least I knew what I was dealing with there: a practitioner, well trained and likely more than a match for my arcane talents. Stealth and deceit had helped me gain the upper hand at Delphi. I doubted that would work twice.
“Also of Olympia, we have my sister Eris, Mistress of Discord,” Ares said as he introduced an olive-skinned woman with wavy black hair. Her eyes shifted nervously from Ares to the other Patrons as she acknowledged his introduction with a curt nod. “And her champion, Cora.”
The striking woman with the ringlet curls that I had observed at lunch gathered her dress about her and affected a slight curtsy. I glanced around my fellow champions and found more than one of them watching her closely. Tadashii was likely right about her nature, but even if he wasn’t, she was a dangerously attractive distraction.
Beside Eris, the next throne was occupied by a brown mist that seemed to hover and shift as it writhed above the seat.
“Dolus, son of Erebus and Nyx, master of deception, I welcome you to the Trial,” Ares said, standing before the mist.
The mist swirled and formed into the likeness of a man, his hands pressed together before it. Then as suddenly as it had assumed human form, Dolus reverted to a cloud of mist once more.
“Dolus has chosen Cassandra as his champion.”
A woman with jet black shoulder length hair and brown leather armor stepped forward. She bowed toward the pavilion containing the patrons and stepped back into line.
Beside Dolus on matching thrones were a pair of beings that bore a striking resemblance to each other as well as Ares. Both of them possessed the same jet black hair, flawless olive skin, and a well-muscled form that would have taken me spending the rest of my natural life in the gym if I had any hope of matching it.
“My sons, Deimos and Phobos, have also brought champions to the Trial,” Ares bellowed. “Behold their champions Lycus and Pyrros.”
The two mountains disguised as men pounded their fists against their chest in salute.
Ares grinned, and a mischievous smile creased his lips. “Lest I stand accused of any nepotism, I will offer this reward. Should any champion slay Lycus or Pyrros, I will grant them an advantage in the challenges to come.”
The two mountains went silent, but their patrons didn’t move. If their father’s announcement surprised them, they gave no sign of it.
I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a twinge of jealousy. By possessing Aphrodite’s beauty and Ares’ strength, Deimos and Phobos had won the genetic lottery. If the worst thing that happened to them was their champion being prematurely knocked off by an eager competitor, then they were still having a good day in my books.
Ares made his way down the pavilion to the final throne. On it sat a being of alien beauty and poise. He was humanoid, but clearly not human, his ears tapering to a point. Above them rested a crown of antlers that in spite of the heat seemed to have a fresh dusting of snow. His armor moved like quicksilver as he shifted in his seat and was colored shades of blue and purple. An enormous bearskin cloak hung off one shoulder, the bear’s face staring at him in angry defiance. The being rested his head on his palm, seemingly indifferent to what was occurring in the arena, but his eyes told a different story. They remained alert, darting back and forth through the assembled champions.
“It is an honor to be able to welcome you to my home, your Highness. When I received your request to enter a champion in the Trial, I could scarcely believe our good fortune. To see the Sidhe in battle is to witness art in motion. It is my great privilege to introduce to you, Oberon, King of the Winter Court, Lord of the Unseelie.”
The Sidhe. I could scarcely believe my ears. Until today, I had never even met one of the fae, and now I stood before the King of Winter himself.
Oberon lifted his head off his fist. “Strength breeds strength. Winter welcomes the chance to test our champion against such worthy foes.”
As the Winter King spoke, the temperature in the arena plummeted. My breath turned to mist before my face and glistening ice began forming along the top of the wall, blossoming out from before his throne like a spreading wave of frost and sleet.
In spite of the dramatic change in the atmosphere of the arena, the Fae King seemed to be exerting no effort whatsoever; not so much as a word of evocation crossed his lips. It was power of a magnitude that was frankly terrifying.
“Competing for winter, we have the Reoánaighsidhe,” Ares called and the Sidhe warrior in azure blue amour raised a gauntleted fist. The design was incredibly intricate, and I had no idea from what material it had been fashioned. The Sidhe found the touch of iron or steel deadly, but clearly they had found a substitute of their own that they were able to work into armor of incredible craftsmanship.
Ice spread steadily over the parapet, expanding down the wall of the arena.
As the temperature in the arena continued to drop, my teeth started to chatter. At this rate, I was going to freeze to death before the trial began.
“Enough, Oberon,” a voice called from the opposite end of the pavilion. “Your petty parlor tricks might impress the mortals, but here we are among equals.”
The voice belonged to another Sidhe but the contrast was as night to day. Where Oberon was fair skinned and cold, she radiated a glow that reminded me of a summer’s day. Her auburn hair was braided with flowers that had been in full bloom but were beginning to wilt under the wintry chill. She wore a dress spun from golden silk and set with priceless gems. Had my breath not been freezing in my throat, she’d have taken it away.
She raised her hand and a warmth radiated out from her throne, turning ice to water as arcane power rolled through the arena. It was as if the sun itself had come out from behind a cloud as the temperature returned to normal. As it did, the wilting flowers set in her hair bloomed and she lowered her hand, a satisfied smile crossing her lips.
“If you ruin my hair, your sunburn will be able to be used to warm the halls of Caisleán Geimhreadh,” the Sidhe woman spoke, her voice as smooth as honey.
Ares smiled. It was a hungry grin of anticipation as he watched the Sidhe feud. When Oberon didn’t respond, he let out the breath he had been holding and continued.
“And of course we are joined by Titania, Queen of Summer, Supreme Matriarch of the Seelie Court. I swear the years only add to your beauty, your Highness.”
“And to your flattery, Ares,” Titania replied, inclining her head toward him. “But let us not pretend this barbarity appeals to the Summer Court. Where Winter goes, Summer must follow, lest there be chaos, and winter is already unusually bitter this year. You play with fire, Ares.”
Now that was intriguing. The rulers of the Sidhe were beings of unspeakable power and yet it seemed there were powers that could compel even them to action. Titania might have been present at the Trial, but she wasn’t pleased about it.
I looked from the Queen of Summer to the King of Winter, with Ares at his side and I realized the truth. If the courts of Summer and Winter balanced each other, as the seasons balanced the climate of our world, any advantage gained by one, threatened to overcome the other. Balance was a precarious status quo to preserve.
If Ares promised a boon to the victor of the Trial, and Winter chose to enter, Summer would be compelled to enter a champion of their own. If not to win, then to at least ensure Winter could not.
“And acting as her champion, the Samhradhsidhe,” Ares announced, and a Sidhe warrior in golden scale armor raised his fist to his heart. The warrior’s armor reminded me of one of the Wood Elves from the Lord of the Rings, but for his longsword that was shaped like a sweeping crescent. It looked like the sort of blade that would take the head off my shoulders with no resistance whatsoever. My suspicion that he was present to stop the Winter Champion didn’t make him any less deadly, but it did present an opportunity that might prove useful.
It gave me something to bargain with.
Ares made his way back down the pavilion and clapped Hachiman on the shoulder. “Of course, my friend Hachiman has brought with him a great warrior to compete. Tadashii of Fukuoka Daigaku.”
I looked sideways at Tadashii, who was staring down at his feet. The god of war was mocking him, and he knew it. Whatever wager the gods had made, my new friend seemed destined to pay the price for it. I didn’t envy him, but I could hardly do anything about it. The more I learned of my fellow champions, the slimmer my prospects were becoming. I grew more confident by the moment that Knight had signed me up to be slaughtered.
“Very funny, Ares,” Hachiman replied, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. “When he wins, I’ll remind you of this moment.”
“I think you mean, if?” Ares answered, then moved on to an empty throne. “Odin, it seems, saw fit to send us one of his Valkyries, but doesn’t have the time to honor us with his presence.”
Among the champions a woman took a step forward. She was dressed in battle leathers that reminded me of a Viking shield maiden. Her blonde hair was worn to the shoulder with a handful of braids keeping it back out of her face. She slammed the haft of her spear against the sand, and it sank a good six inches into the gritty substrate.
“My Lord sends his apologies for his absence, but there was a matter he had to attend to,” the Valkyrie called in reply.
Ares regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “My esteemed guests, I give you Estrid.”
The Valkyrie bowed her head, placed her hand over her heart, and fell back into line.
I stared at her in amazement. A Valkyrie, a Chooser of the Slain in the flesh. I could scarcely believe my eyes. What was she doing here? The Norse were renowned for their love of battle, but competing for the amusement of other gods seemed out of character for the enigmatic Odin.
I looked up at the pavilion. Ares had introduced all of the beings on thrones, but I couldn’t help but notice we had far more champions than there were supreme beings in attendance.
Ares leaned on the parapet, studying the assembled champions. “I must say, when I opened the field for the Trial, I had hardly expected so many unusual Champions to present themselves. The following champions fight for themselves, or for a Patron of a less divine station. In no particular order let me present them to you.”
“Why introduce the fodder, Father?” Deimos called. “Their presence here shows arrogance and ignorance in equal measure. Let us not reward them for their foolishness.”
Ares raised a hand to silence his son. “They have offered their life to compete in the Trial. They shall be announced as any other. They have earned that right.”
Deimos shrank back into his throne. His eyes flared with frustration at his father’s rebuke, but he stewed silently.
Ares looked directly at me, and my heart skipped a beat. “Representing the interests of Edward Knight, a philanthropist and entrepreneur from the United States, we have Seth Caldwell.”
I stepped forward, my heart pounding as I searched for Knight among those in the pavilion. Philanthropist? Clearly someone had a sense of humor.
Knight stepped out of the shadows at the rear of the pavilion, still dressed in his three-piece suit, his fedora in hand. Tan was only a step behind him as he made his way to the fore and affected a sweeping bow. He looked down at me and waved.
“Good to see you back on your feet, Seth,” he called with the mock concern of a man who’d given me a near fatal dose of sedatives.
I had half a mind to end him once and for all, but Ares’ warning combined with the unyielding gaze of the dozen or so deities seated behind him told me that it was an unwise course of action. If I was lucky, I might kill him. On the other hand, I’d absolutely die for it.
I shook my head and stepped back into line, not trusting what would come out of my mouth should I open it.
“We also have Alessa of the Crimson Court, Feneck Strickland of the Arcane Parliament, and Clyde Baker, of the Baker Clan.”
A trio of champions stepped forward. The first, Alessa, I’d seen in the barracks. Her skin was like alabaster and she wore a coat of scarlet scale mail that danced like fire as it moved. Her red hair brushed against her shoulders, her hand resting on a wicked blade tucked into her belt.
The second had to be Strickland. He wore the ceremonial robes of the Arcane Parliament, the governing body of wizards that presided over Europe. In one hand he carried a large staff carved from the gnarled boughs of a willow tree. His dark hair was cropped short and sprinkled with gray. If he represented the Parliament’s interests, he had to be a wizard of considerable skill. For such a talent to risk their life in this sort of gambit was unusual. I would never have entered the Trial of my own accord. This Strickland was either bold, foolish, or acting at the Parliament’s direction. All of which made him an opponent to be wary of.
The third champion was scarcely five feet tall. He wore nothing but overalls and a pair of old boots with a hole worn in one side. His thick mop of black hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in his lifetime and covered much of his face. He gave Ares a gap tooth grin as he reached up and cracked his neck with enough force I thought he was about to tear it off his shoulders.
“Next we have champions representing the interests of a number of organizations. Jurgen Grimm, of the Brothers Grimm. Brother Saul of the Knights Templar, and Drewitt of the Blackened Hand,” Ares called. “Present yourselves and be recognized for your courage.”
A man stepped forward carrying a black leather bag in one hand. It was faded and worn but he set it down gently on the floor of the arena and affected a bow. He was wearing a Victorian era frock coat, over a vest with a cravat, and a top hat. Were we in London, he’d have been two centuries out of place.
Here in the Areopagus, he didn’t fit in either. I’d heard of the Grimms; they had made their fame and fortune hunting magical creatures in Europe in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds. I’d heard little of them in recent times, but from Ares’ introduction I could infer the family was intact and carrying on its self-appointed mandate.
That conclusion was supported by the utter contempt reflected in the countenance of Oberon and Titania, the first thing the pair of Fae Rulers seemed to agree on.
Brother Saul of the Knights Templar wore plate armor with a white mantle emblazoned with a red cross. Known by a handful of names over the centuries, the Knights Templar were thought to have been wholly destroyed almost a thousand years ago. While his armor resembled that of a medieval knight, the ease with which he moved suggested the armor had been crafted from a lighter composite alloy to give him greater freedom of movement.
Drewitt stepped forward, a pasty young man in a black trench coat and beanie. Whatever the Blackened Hand were, clearly they didn’t spring for ultra-modern armor like the Templars. I couldn’t see any apparent weapons, though the trench coat could easily be concealing a multitude of them. The scraggly champion looked up at Ares and jammed his hands in his pockets.
“And we have Edna,” Ares called, pointing to a young woman in a summer dress, bereft of weapons, armor, or the means to defend herself. She couldn’t be more than eighteen years old.
The young girl stepped forward, gave a curtsy, and stepped back into line, between Lycus and Pyrros. She looked utterly out of place among the chosen of the Gods. How had such an innocent young child come to be here?
“Last, but not least, we have Agent Smith of the Central Intelligence Agency,” Ares announced.
The CIA? What on earth were they doing here? The man in the combat fatigues stepped forward. He was wearing body armor and carrying an assault rifle. He managed a curt salute and stepped back into line. Smith was about as likely to be his real name as I was to survive this Trial.
I stared at the agent. He was a normal surrounded by the supernatural world, but it didn’t seem to faze him. Was he really CIA or was he Section 9?
Section 9 was the CIA’s covert division that dealt with arcane matters. The degree of intelligence they had managed to gather on the supernatural world had shocked me. If he was an agent, did Section 9 truly believe they could win the trial? They considered the arcane the next frontier for weapons technology. Could they be seeking Ares’ favor for the same reason?
“Ares, I thought you said we’d have a score of champions,” Titania called, as her eyes roamed over us. “I count nineteen.”
I had been too busy coming to grips with the assembled might of the supernatural world that sat in the pavilion above me to do a head count, but I looked about and soon discovered that she was right. Someone was missing.
Ares’ eyes roamed over the champions, registering those who were present against some sort of invisible checklist. He rose and signaled to his guards.
“The beast is missing. Go and fetch him from his chambers. Clearly he indulged a little too heavily last night.”
The mood in the arena was tense as a handful of the Greek soldiers marched back toward the barracks. Whispers broke out in the Arena. Gods and champions alike seemed interested in the missing champion. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion, everyone except Edward Knight who made his way to the front of the pavilion and hoisted a black duffel bag onto the parapet. He motioned me over and I looked at Ares, who shrugged as he awaited the return of his men.
I approached the arena wall, and Knight called out to me. “You had me worried there. I thought we might have overdone it on the tranquilizers.”
“You drugged me,” I shouted back. “When I get out of here—“
“Hush,” Knight called back. “There’s no time for that now. You owed me a debt. Now you’ll pay it. If you survive, we can argue the semantics, but given the quality of your competition, you need to get your head in the game. Now take these and suit up. The Trial is about to commence.”
Knight hurled the duffel over the wall, and it landed with a thud in the arena.
“I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got you a bit of everything. Good luck!” Knight called before returning to his place at the back of the pavilion.
I shook my head as I carried the duffel back to the group of champions. I shuffled through their ranks until I stood at the back. Whatever surprises Knight had prepared, I wanted to keep them to myself. Surprise might be one of the few things I had going for me here.
I lowered the bag to the ground and unzipped it. Laying on top was a lightweight bulletproof vest. While I couldn’t be sure of how it would stack up against some of the weapons the other champions were carrying, I preferred it to the battered cotton shirt I was wearing.
I lifted the vest out of the bag, pulled it over my head, and fastened it around me. Next came a set of combat rigging that would allow me to carry far more than I might be able to jam in my pockets. Had I known I’d be walking into this madness, I would have brought something from my vault. I had a handful of relics that would at least have given me a fighting chance here.
I had no idea what the trial was going to be, so I wasn’t quite sure how I should prepare for it. My first instinct was to take everything, but I doubted I’d be able to lug it all very far. Besides, most of the time it was the ability to move that had kept me from death’s door.
I rummaged through the bag and did a quick inventory of its contents. My first stop was a pair of flashbangs, because people who can’t see you have a far harder time trying to kill you. I slid them into the pouches on my combat rigging, followed by a frag grenade. Next up were a pair of custom climbing pitons. They were the same variety I had asked for in Delphi. Once the piton was driven into a rock or crevice, a button on the handle would force apart the two halves of the shaft to ensure it didn’t come loose once you put some weight on it. There was a spool of climber’s rope, and I tucked that in a slip pouch located at the small of my back: easy to access in a hurry, but out of the way so that I wouldn’t trip over it while moving about.
Knight clearly had no idea what I was going up against either, as the duffel seemed to have contingencies for a dozen situations including a small scuba tank, a brick of C-4 explosive with a remote detonator, a Glock sidearm, and a P90 submachine gun, with some spare magazines. I tucked the C-4 and detonators into a pouch at my waist. I considered the tank, but it was just far more weight than I wanted to be lugging around. Unless Ares wanted to send us on a naval expedition it was more dead-weight than I could afford.
On a normal day, I preferred to rely on my magic over firearms, since I was a mediocre marksman and felt I had greater control over the arcane than I did a bullet once I pulled the trigger. Being a wizard, I also kind of felt like carrying an automatic weapon was overkill, but as I stood in the sandy arena, surrounded by eighteen champions determined to kill me on their way to victory, I decided a little overkill was exactly what the doctor ordered.
I lifted the Glock and a leather holster out of the bag and strapped it to my right hip before pulling out the P90 and a pair of spare clips. The spare ammunition got tucked into pouches on the left-hand side of my rigging. I did a quick once over of the weapon, found it loaded and ready, and tucked it into the crook of my right arm. I might not be a sharpshooter, but I was confident that with fifty rounds in a magazine, I’d be able to put a hole in anything that might be trying to murder me.
A collective gasp rose from the arena as Ares’ guards returned to the arena. The six of them had their shields above their heads and were struggling under a considerable weight. They marched together, making their way around the edge of the arena toward the pavilion. Even from where I stood, I could see that something lay atop the shields. It was huge and covered in what looked like gray fur.
The guards stopped in front of the pavilion, by which time the champions had gathered, each vying for a closer look.
With a groan, the soldiers tipped their shields and deposited their cargo on the sandy floor of the arena.
Four hundred pounds of werewolf hit the sand with a muffled thud and didn’t move. Drunk was an understatement; the creature was comatose.
It was then that I saw the thick trail of blood matting his fur down one flank. He wasn’t sleeping—he was dead.