The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (10 page)

I am glad for that, as I succumb to heavy sleep
in a bed of flowers.

The following dawn, I shake off the prior
night's ill effects to begin learning what I can and planning my
departure. There are ninety-odd Chrysioi, all told. Unlike ours,
their numbers are split roughly evenly between male and female. We
thirty-three-plus-ten Atlanteans are assigned comfortable quarters in
three shared dormitories, two housing men and another for our twelve
women. Ares introduces me to his brother Hephaestus, a mountain of a
blacksmith who drags one lame leg behind him as he walks. Although he
shares blame with his brother and all the Chrysioi for the needless
deaths of some fifty Atlanteans, I offer him words of genuine
gratitude for having provided the key which saved those of us who yet
live.

I also 'meet' their sister Athena, whose
slumbering, battle-dressed form is laid out on display on a marble
plinth in a columned sanctuary built for the purpose. In speaking to
various Chrysioi, I gather that Athena is older and better liked than
Ares, and would naturally retake her place as leader of the Chrysioi
were she to awaken.

I do these things with impatience, for what I
truly wish to do is commence my search for Ayessa. But preparation is
required, and anyway, if I truly intend never to return to Neolympus,
at least not in failure, then there is one matter of vital importance
to which I first must attend...

It is not until our second full day as
Neolympians that I am able to gain audience with the witch Medea. My
first close-up sight of her chills me every bit as much as did the
glimpse I had in the cavern in Hades, where first she summoned my
soul up from the depths. The cloak she wears is of dark red, the
color of a wound, and from its deep hood issues black hair in chaotic
spirals which take on a similarly bloody hue when light hits them.
Across her eyes and over the bridge of her nose, running from temple
to temple, is a painted streak of gray, the color of ash, from within
which golden irises skewer the object of their stare. Her angular
cheeks are unlined, and the bronze skin of her neck is supple, but
she does not have the appearance of youth; yet neither does she look
old. It may be that she is ageless.

Physically drained, I have been told, by the
extensive application of her powers in the building of Neolympus, the
witch hugs a tall staff that might be the only thing holding her
upright. Such posture makes her no less imposing a figure, though,
for the strength Medea radiates is not of the physical kind.

Her first word to me is my name: "Thamoth."
A whisper which sets my hairs on end. "You wish to know
thyself?" A silent affirmative is all I can manage. "Are
you certain? You may not be pleased with what you learn."

She walks around me, her staff thumping slowly
on flagstone in a garden adjacent to the great hall from which Ares
rules over Neolympus.

"Most lives end full of regrets," she
continues. "You have been given a gift that few ever receive,
that of a new start. Why not take it?"

"Another soul was reborn to which I feel
drawn," I confess to the witch, even though it is no concern of 
hers. "She knew my name, and I hers. She... feared me, but I
know with every shred of my being that in our prior lives, I loved
her."

"Hmmph," Medea intones, scorn twisting
her dark lips. "You speak of the one eaten by giants."

"She lives!" I counter angrily. I do
not bother to ask how she knew that; she is a witch.

Medea scoffs. "I suppose you feel it in
your 
heart
, or your left leg, or your... Pfft! Never
mind. I care not.    You wish to know yourself? I doubt it
is possible, but fortunately for you, I rather enjoy doing the
impossible. Return to me tomorrow, and every six days thereafter,
until either you know why the tasty  dead girl feared you... or
I have grown tired of trying."

She whirls and stalks off, crimson cloak
billowing, staff thumping stone.

That night, I stand alone upon the Cyclopean
walls, glumly staring down on the distant tops of evergreens as I
weigh a decision I do not wish to make: to leave tomorrow on my
search, as planned, if Medea fails, or to remain here for some
multiple of six days in the hope she will succeed.

She mocked my feeling that Ayessa lives, but I
do feel it. Rather, I know that her death would have shaken my soul.
She is out there, somewhere. My gaze is drawn to the ravens' pass.
However it is that I know Ayessa lives, I know, too, that that is
where my search must take me.

But... first I will give the witch some number
of chances to do the impossible. In the meantime, I can take Kairos,
for his luck, and whomever else is willing, on expeditions into the
surrounding valleys, to seek my Wellspring. I have not lived long, so
it is possible that I am merely a fool and my feelings false.

Perhaps Medea will succeed in her first attempt,
and my worry will prove for naught.

The next day, in her witch's den, far from the
other dwellings and structures of Neolympus, Medea drains my blood
into a goblet, mixes it with several unsavory ingredients, and speaks
enchantments over the potion before bidding me drink it, which I
do--to no result other than retching.

Swallowing disappointment, I lead a search party
to the site where Ayessa was last seen, guided there  by a
survivor of the same giant attack that resulted in her disappearance.
It is nothing but a clearing, and I discover no clues there, but I do
privately take note of one fact: the place stands on a direct line
between Neolympus and the wooded pass through which the ravens fly.
From Ayessa's last known location, the pass is clearly visible.

We scour a wide area, to no avail. Six days
later, in Medea's den, I inhale foul-smelling smoke and fall
unconscious, to awaken hours later with my burden of ignorance no
lighter. In the six days which follow, I conduct another search and
quietly prepare Crow, without informing him of my plans, to lead our
people in my stead. Then I allow Medea to hold my head underwater
while I thrash and spasm and finally pass out.

All for naught. It is the near-drowning which
first makes me suspect that Medea might be entertaining herself at my
expense. But when I raise the possibility to Ares, he assures me that
such are the witch's ways. And so, three more times, I submit to her
indignities in the hope of knowing myself.

In all, I meet with Medea six times over
thirty-six days.

"Tell the truth," I demand angrily of
the witch, after the sixth visit yields not the vaguest vision of my
lost past. My bare flesh is covered with arcane sigils drawn with ink
made from my own blood and the ashes of a bird that has been burned
alive. "Are you any closer to success than the day we began? Is
this task beyond you?"

She fixes me with a golden glare.

"Tell me!" I press, frustration making
me bold. "Can you do it?"

"I don't know!" Medea snaps,
displaying what she has not until now: frustration. She has not been
toying with me, then, but only been unwilling to admit that a task is
beyond her. "My magic is better suited to other uses. More
important ones!"

She sweeps her staff at me. She no longer leans
upon it, having steadily recovered her strength of limb as the burden
required of her in the building of Neolympus lessens.

"Be gone with you!" she spits. "Be
grateful for the new life I gave you, and stop asking for more!"

I heed her and leave, for I do not need the
Chrysioi to tell me that it is unwise to sink too deeply into
argument with a witch. I am disappointed, of course, but hardly
surprised.

In a way I feel relief, for now my path is
clear. It is the path forbidden by Ares. The ravens' path.

When I gather my next set of volunteers to
search the woods, I know it will be the last time I do so.
Conveniently, the destination I have chosen is an area near the
ravens' pass. I take with me extra food  and supplies, but this
comes as no surprise to any who know me, for it has been my
calculated habit to stay out searching for an extra day or two after
the rest have returned to Neolympus.

Crow has on occasion been among the searchers,
but I discourage it. I prefer that he remain and become accustomed to
the responsibilities of leading our people and representing their
interests to Ares. He has done well. He is surely more ready for the
role than I ever was when I took it on.

Shortly before my departure, Crow regards me in
way which causes me to tense with worry. "I think I know what
you plan, Thamoth," he says.

"Same as ever," I say dismissively.

"Why do I feel as though I won't see you
again? At least not for a long while."

I look sharply at him and a feeling comes over
me I have had once or twice before. "Perhaps because you and I
are also somehow... connected."

He laughs. "It could be..." he says
jovially. "But I will content myself to wonder. And if it comes
to it... I will not scour valleys full of giants to find you."

I smile. "I hope you won't."

Crow embraces me. "Farewell," he says.
"I'll say nothing to Ares. I hope you find her."

An hour later, I leave with four Atlanteans and
three Chrysioi down the winding mountain path from Neolympus. I do
not look back. When we reach the valley, we commence searching the
woods. I endeavor to make it seem as though this search is no
different than any other, even though it is not; I have hardly given
up on finding Ayessa, but I have long since given up on finding her
so near to Neolympus. Hunting parties—which we also are, since
there is little reason to pass up game when we come upon it—would
have find her by now, or she would have made her own way back.

After a day which yields us but a stag and a
hart, we camp for the night, and the next dawn, following the typical
pattern, we spend another half day searching and hunting before
starting the arduous ascent to Neolympus. Often enough, I will remain
out longer, sending the others back, and such is what I do this day.
Only this time, I shall not follow them home one or two nights hence.

It will be at least three days before they
understand that I have gone missing. A search will be conducted—a
mere show of one, if Crow leads it—but it will not matter. By
then, I shall be long gone.

***

For a day and a night I hike toward the pass,
leaving behind all I have known. The going is hard, and I wake up
mornings with frost on my cloak. I cannot risk sleeping beside a fire
whose smoke gives away  my presence. Not for an instant do I
regret my choice, even though I know I have put the good of one
before that of all.

That one, I understand, is not Ayessa but
Thamoth. I could tell myself that this is a selfless act, that I fear
for her safety and intend to rescue her. And I will, if she needs
rescuing, but my true motive is more selfish. I must be made whole,
and it is clearer more to me now than ever before that Ayessa is
indispensable to that goal. It cannot be for nothing that my soul
followed hers up from the abyss. I was a fool to have waited this
long to embark upon my present path, thinking in vain that Medea
could provide what I seek with her potions and sigils.

The approach to the pass is steep. The trees
become sparser, the ground rocky. At every opportunity, I climb to a
high vantage and scan in all directions, but I spy nothing but
forests and mountains, none different from any other. Now and then I
hear sounds that may or may not be giants. I try to catch glimpses of
them if I can, while avoiding confrontation. Though it is possible
that one or more of their kind might be holding Ayessa captive, I do
not count it as likely. If giants had taken her, she would be dead by
now, and I choose to believe she is not. Thus I am not interested in
giants, at least not any resembling the brutes we have seen so far.

As the clouds glow pink with the onset of dusk
on my third day, I reach the top of the ravens' pass and see for the
first time what lies on the other side. Not surprisingly, it is
another valley scarcely discernible from our own. The sight causes me
neither hope nor despair. I will simply press on and hope that my
bond with Ayessa will guide me to wherever she is now.

I halt for the night on the crest and sleep
well—better than I have of late in Neolympus, on account of a
feeling of rightness to what I am doing. When I open my eyes, it is
nearly dawn. Something has awakened me. Sounds... unnatural ones. I
lie still for a few seconds while my ears confirm it.

I hear the roaring battle cries of giants, loud
cracks, heavy crashes: the din of combat. Their direction is the one
in which I am traveling, through the pass.

Sleep forgotten, within seconds I am on my feet
and running toward the fighting. Probably it is nothing more than a
few of the brutes having a dispute. But maybe it is something more.

I throw my pack over my shoulder, clamp one hand
on my sword hilt to keep it still, and I run, following the sounds.
Since my path is downhill, I soon reach breakneck pace. The noises of
conflict persist and include what I take to be a giant's wail of
pain. Hearing how close that sounds, I slow my pace, lest I blunder
straight into harm's way.

My stealthier approach puts me atop a ten-foot
ridge of rock overlooking the site of the disturbance. From here, the
roars loosed by giant lungs are ear-splitting. Setting down my pack,
I crawl forward to peer over the edge. The sight which awaits is one
I never could have anticipated.

I see two giants. One is on all fours,
struggling to rise, with blood streaming from at least one wound in
his torso. The second, roaring with every sweep of his great, spiked
club, is presently engaged in fierce battle not with the other
giant—but a lone woman.