Son of Zeus Read online

  She loved these people, her friends, the philosopher . . . She wanted to do whatever it took to get them out, to get them back home. She wanted to win, fix the Prime Break, eliminate the SQ, stop the Cataclysm. She wanted it all so desperately.

  And underneath it all, her parents. She could still picture them, as she’d seen them in her Remnants. She knew that whatever power Tilda had over them, they loved her. She just knew it. So if it had been the SQ who had taken her parents from her, then that was all the more reason to keep fighting until the SQ was wiped out of existence.

  Dak. Riq. Aristotle. Her parents. Dak’s parents. Her uncle. Brint. Mari. The countless others who would be saved if the mission succeeded.

  Riq could cry — he deserved to let it all out. Dak could sit and think — he deserved a rest, a break, some time to himself. Aristotle could stare at the sky and hope as much as he wanted.

  The rest was up to Sera.

  She could do this.

  Would do this.

  No matter what.

  Step by step, piece by piece.

  She got to work.

  THE GAG was the first thing to go.

  She had to trust her eyes more than ever before in her life. Watching, waiting, watching, looking everywhere — she focused on the soldiers guarding the pit, and forced herself to rely on patience, taking the tiny opportunities when they came. Dak started to sit up when he noticed what she was doing, but she glared at him — they could say more with their eyes and body language than most people could with words — and he went back to lying on the dirty ground.

  It took a while — and some serious bending of body parts that she hadn’t bent so much since, well, 1850 or so — but she was finally able to reach her hand high enough to grab the wad of cloth in her mouth and pull it out. Choking and coughing, she spun around to face the wall of the pit so that no one could see her. Thirst raked her throat, and it seemed as if the coughs might never stop coming. But they subsided, and she composed herself once again.

  She slowly turned around, puffing her cheeks out a bit so that it would look like she still had the gag. A quick survey of the scene up above showed that no guards suspected anything — in fact, they wandered around the pit as if they couldn’t care less what anyone below did. But Sera couldn’t take any chances.

  Riq caught her eye. He’d uncurled from his position and sat staring at her, his face full of questions. That’s when Sera made a huge decision. Escaping the pit would be hard enough for one person — impossible for four. Her friends needed to trust that she could find people who knew Aristotle and come back to get them. She hoped they understood. With careful nods of her head and pointing with her eyes, she tried to tell Riq and Dak that she wanted them to create a diversion.

  In one corner of the pit, there were enough hand- and footholds in the dug-out dirt that she was certain she could climb up the wall and out. She’d climbed her share of trees throughout the years. Riq and Dak seemed to understand, and started moving to the opposite side of the pit, hands still tied up.

  Which reminded Sera of her next task. The ropes binding her wrists didn’t seem all that strong. And there were plenty of rocks strewn about the roughly dug prison into which they’d been thrown. She looked around until she found a good one with a sharp edge, then sat over it, head down, like a girl who’d given up on the world and only wanted to cry in pity. Then she started sawing. Back and forth, back and forth, glancing around every few seconds to make sure no soldier had noticed.

  A strained, muffled series of sounds came from behind her, and she twisted around to see Aristotle looking directly at her, trying to say something. She shrugged to let him know she couldn’t understand, and he stopped making the moaning noise. But then his face took on a calm, commanding presence — almost magical — that seemed to fill the air with some kind of unearthly communication. She felt it, and it encouraged her. He was telling her that he was proud, that he knew she could do this.

  She went back to her task, working harder to cut the ropes.

  “You there!” a man yelled from the lip of the pit.

  Every cell in Sera’s body froze solid, and her heart dropped. Still crouching over the rock, she slowly looked up. A soldier stood on the very edge, his toes hanging over. He was pointing, but not at her. He was pointing at Dak and Riq, who bounced on their feet as if they thought they could jump right out of the pit.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the guard asked, a hint of cocky amusement in his voice. “Trying to get in some exercise so you’ll be nice and fit for the hanging tomorrow?” He bellowed a laugh that made Sera want to strangle him, and some of the other soldiers joined in. One picked up a rock and threw it at Dak, though it missed, kicking up a little puff of dirt where it landed.

  Sera couldn’t help them, not now. Her best bet was to use the diversion.

  She sawed, vigorously, biting her tongue between her lips with the effort. Finally, the rope snapped in two and the frayed fragments fell from her wrists. She quickly squatted over them and kept her hands behind her back, waiting to see if any alarms or shouts arose from the soldiers. But every last one of them continued to mock and throw things at Dak and Riq.

  Sera was free. Loose. Too bad she was at the bottom of a huge pit with soldiers all around her.

  She moved casually, making sure to avoid quick or jerky movements that might draw attention. Keeping to the lowest, farthest angle of the pit’s bottom, she crawled toward the corner, longing for the hand- and footholds like they were a thousand miles away. Dak and Riq had quite a crowd now, causing their diversion without even having to do much. She’d be sure to thank them for all the lumps and bruises they’d have from rocks raining down from above. Thankfully, the guards seemed like they only wanted to taunt them, not hurt or kill them. Most of the ammunition missed by a long shot.

  She reached the corner. Freedom awaited ten feet above her. Every soldier she could see had made their way to the other half of the pit, watching the show. She saw Riq notice her, and his eyes said it all before he quickly looked away. He knew she needed something a little more special to ensure no one looked her way.

  Riq coiled his legs, then vaulted himself onto Dak, using his shoulders and knees to pummel her best friend. She didn’t know if Dak understood what he was doing, but Dak fought back on instinct, and soon they were rolling and tussling comically as the soldiers — and, sadly, the other prisoners — roared with laughter, cheering for one or the other.

  Now, Sera thought.

  Giving up on any pretense of staying low or being tied with ropes anymore, Sera jumped to her feet and attacked the dirt wall, roughly hewn and filled with places to grab for holds. Some of it crumbled, making her slip several inches at a time, but things stayed solid for the most part. Like a monkey on a jungle gym, she clambered up and reached the top of the pit in no time.

  Panting — more from anxiety than the effort of climbing — she didn’t waste even a second looking around to see who might’ve seen her. She spotted a break in a long row of tents nearby, a little alley that led away from the main clearing, where hundreds of people milled about. She headed that direction, sprinting with all the strength left in her body.

  She’d made it about halfway when she heard the clamor and yells of the soldiers guarding the pit. Their angry voices rose over the din of the crowd.

  They’d spotted her.

  DAK WONDERED if he’d ever have a day again where nothing on his body hurt and there weren’t a million things on the planet stressing him out.

  Today certainly wasn’t it.

  He’d already been tired and sore before crawling across the dirty floor of the pit with his hands tied. Then you added in the nice element of rocks raining down from the sky, a few of them lucky enough to smack him in the shoulders and back. To top it all off, Riq decided to go insane-wrestler-dude on him, jabbing with his elbows and knees in all kinds of places that didn’t feel so hot. Dak had fought back, knowing that it was for Sera — but that d
idn’t mean he had to like it.

  And it had worked. He knew it. He’d seen her disappear over the lip of the pit, and she’d had plenty of a head start before the soldiers started yelling and chasing. He knew his friend, and he wouldn’t even allow the thought of her getting caught to enter his mind. At least he had the pit as a measuring stick — as long as she wasn’t hauled back and thrown in, he had to assume she was safe. Unless . . .

  Again, he blocked off his mind from terrible possibilities.

  Riq lay on his side, facing away from Dak. The poor guy, Dak thought. Something about him seemed to suggest he’d finally run out of steam. He reminded Dak of a balloon that held on for as long as it could after a birthday party, clinging to the ceiling, but then eventually sank to the floor, a wilted, crumpled heap of rubber. Dak felt it, too, but he still had hope. Once someone figured out they had Aristotle in their prison pit, surely all would be well in the world again.

  The Let’s-Throw-Rocks-at-Dak-and-Riq Show had ended as soon as a guard had spotted Sera running away, and most of the guards had left in pursuit. Several returned now, but Dak couldn’t tell from their whispers or body language if she’d been captured. The fact that they didn’t bring her back, of course, was a very good sign. Unless . . .

  One of the soldiers lowered a wooden ladder into the pit, steadied it, then climbed down, followed by two others. Dak shifted around to fully face them, sitting on his rear end, feeling like a lassoed pig. The three guards were armed, and one of them actually had his sword in hand, using only the other as he descended. Though Dak held on to the hope that they had come down for some other purpose, it was quickly dashed. They headed straight for Riq.

  Riq noticed them at the last second, jolting and squirming as he tried to get away from them. Useless effort, of course. They snatched him under the arms and hauled him to his feet, then dragged him to the closest wall of the pit, where they — very ungently — threw him back down into the dirt. He landed with a heavy thump and a grunt. Next, they came for Dak, who didn’t resist when they did the same thing to him. A few seconds later, he was sitting next to Riq, his backside a little sorer than it had been.

  Not surprisingly, Aristotle was their last target, picked up and dragged along to join the two boys with whom he’d arrived at the camp. The soldiers treated him just as roughly, and Dak wanted to hit somebody. Really hard.

  Once the three of them were all lined up, the guard who’d come down the ladder brandishing his sword stepped right in front of them. He looked at one of his partners and gave a curt nod. That man came forward and yanked the cloth gags out of each prisoner’s mouth. Dak coughed and spat when his came out, feeling the sweet rush of air — which only made him thirstier. The soldier threw the wet, slightly bloody pieces of cloth onto the ground and took a place behind the guy in charge.

  “Listen to me well,” the man said. “You’re the first people to wander into our camps since we heard of . . . ill tidings toward our king and hegemon. On the cusp of the greatest period in Greek history, we have neither the time nor patience to ask who you are or what you want. We’ve been ordered to take the utmost of precautions, and not to trouble our great leader.”

  This dude is good at speaking a lot of words without saying anything, Dak thought.

  “Do you know who I am?” Aristotle asked, his voice a scratchy rasp.

  The soldier’s face showed no emotion. “I don’t care. If you were anyone of importance, you’d know to stay clear of these lands.”

  “I’m Aristotle!” the philosopher yelled, as loudly as his weakened condition would allow. “I practically raised the son of the great king of whom you speak! I demand you take me to him so we can clear up all this nonsense. I demand you free my friends!”

  “Aristotle?” the soldier barked, looking around at his comrades. “Look, men. The greatest philosopher in all the world sprouted wings and flew here from Corinth. His powers are even mightier than I thought.”

  “I can explain, you fool! The hegemon and his son are in great danger!”

  The soldier dropped to one knee and leaned toward them so quickly that Dak recoiled, knocking the back of his head against the hard dirt of the wall.

  “I know,” the man said. “We know all too well. Which is why we’ve been ordered to . . . deal with lunatics like yourself who come marching into our camp.” He stood back up, brushing dust from his knee. “You have two choices, prisoners. And consider yourselves lucky that it’s not only one. Circumstances allow for a little leniency, when war is on the morrow.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dak asked.

  The soldier gave him a nasty look, like he didn’t care for interruptions. “Your choices are these: death at sunrise, by the gallows, or fight for your redemption on the front line of the king’s army when we attack our first foe. We’ll need all the bodies we can get up there, and yours will serve justly.”

  “Either choice is death!” Aristotle yelled.

  The soldier shrugged. “People have survived the front line before. Others . . . have not. The choice is yours. Certain death, or death uncertain. Choose.”

  Dak had his decision before the words even finished coming out of the guy’s mouth. His parents. If the magistrate report Aristotle had read to them was true, Dak’s parents were on the front line! This was his easiest and best route at reuniting with them. As for how they’d survive the ordeal . . . well, they’d think of something.

  “You,” the soldier said, pointing at Riq. “Speak. What’s your choice?”

  “The front line.” He answered so quickly that Dak didn’t know what to think of it. Riq had been brooding and distant — but Dak had figured you got that way when captured and thrown into a pit. He wished so badly they could just have a few minutes to talk.

  “A wise choice,” the soldier responded, motioning for someone to come and take Riq away. A guard walked over and cut the ropes binding his wrists, then helped him to his feet. “You may take the spear or sword wound that was meant for our real soldiers, or for the hegemon himself. The gods will never forget. Go. Arm him and send him to the front.”

  “Wait!” Dak yelled. “I’m going with him! That’s my choice.”

  The soldier grunted. “You’re barely the size of a rat. But your flesh can capture a spear as well as any other. Fine, take him as well.” As the subordinate moved to obey, slashing at the ropes around Dak’s wrists, the soldier in charge stepped in front of Aristotle and looked down at him.

  “And you, old man? The glorious philosopher who can fly? What say you?”

  Aristotle glanced over at Dak with sad, haunted eyes, then at Riq. He answered in a grave, resigned voice.

  “I choose death.”

  SERA HAD waited a solid hour, hiding in the darkness under a canvas sheet with a bunch of crates and vegetables. It smelled of olives and mildew, and she could barely breathe, but at least it had been a while since she’d heard any sign of pursuit. Maybe she’d done it after all. Escaped the pit and its soldiers. But the hardest part still lay ahead.

  Somehow, she had to find the tent of King Philip. She just hoped the man didn’t order her killed on the spot once she got there.

  Sera poked her head out of the hiding spot and looked around. People walked about everywhere — soldiers, servants, even a few children, doubtless tagging along with parents working on behalf of the army. If she could find some new clothes maybe she could search for the king without drawing too much attention.

  Scampering from one hiding place to another, shadow to shadow, she spent the next half an hour or so trying to do just that. She finally hit the jackpot behind a grimy old tent, where a pile of clothing and rags had been thrown out the back, perhaps for washing later. Sera quickly rummaged through it until she found a shirt and pants — ratty, torn, filthy. Luckily, the satchel containing the Infinity Ring was brown and rustic and didn’t seem out of place.

  And so, the search began.

  From tent to tent she went, acting as casual as possible, c
arrying a box she’d found with a bunch of bandages and ointments — somewhere a medic was wondering where in the world he’d misplaced it. Guards and soldiers were everywhere, but, after all, this was an army camp, so she stopped being alarmed at the sight. The entire camp was a busy beehive — supplies being packed, food being prepared, smiths working on weapons, soldiers practicing with swords and spears, servants hustling about so as not to get trampled.

  On Sera went, scouring the place with her eyes to find anything that looked like —

  And then she spotted it.

  One tent towered over the others around it, but she hadn’t been able to see it before because of so many smaller tents obscuring her view. The one she saw now was grand and painted in many colors and had a row of soldiers guarding all four sides of it. If there’d ever been a tent fit for a king, that was it.

  She made her way toward it, racking her brain for an idea of how to actually get inside. All she needed was five minutes — no, maybe even one minute — with King Philip before she could convince him. She knew it. Especially if Alexander had already arrived — he’d remember her for sure. And know that she was a friend to his mentor.

  Getting more scared with each and every step she took toward the front flaps of the huge tent, she didn’t allow herself to slow. Somehow, someway, she would get inside. Sometimes, being a young person had its advantages — no one would take her as a real threat.

  She was about thirty feet away, squeezing past a compact crowd of people going about their business, when a commotion to the far right of the tent caught her attention. Several soldiers were shouting and pushing their way toward the very spot to which Sera was headed. When they finally broke free and came into her line of view, she stopped and sucked in a quick take of air.

  It was Alexander, dragging a soldier — the man who’d captured Sera and her friends — by the scruff of his shirt. As for Alex, he looked as angry as he had when he’d left them back at the palace of his mother, charging away on his horse, Bucephalus. Several other soldiers were with him, and bringing up the rear was Aristotle, completely free of bindings.