The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (5 page)

It is no accident. Once more, Pyrakmon has made
himself my savior.

I soon find the metal plate. Hauling it up in
one shoulder-wrenching jerk, for it is quite heavy, I manage to raise
it high enough to fasten the topmost chain to one of the six open
links on the plate. The remaining five follow more easily. Lastly I
remove the key, which thankfully has remained in the lock. With a
strong, sharp sound the links snap shut.

I find my sword. At last I am free to escape, to
join my brethren and seek my destiny in the unknown. Down the tunnel
I crawl, hand to knee, hand to knee. Green mist gives way to a
darkness so complete that I cannot see my own hands under me on the
cold, rough surface of the tunnel. The swarm's screeching fades into
a silence that is just as complete, but for the sounds of my own
breathing and movements. The passage leads ever downward, its slope
eventually becoming so pronounced that often it becomes more
expedient to rotate and descend backward. Soon I begin to hear the
voices of my fellow Atlanteans speaking in hushed tones that echo up
to me, and I rejoin my faceless, nameless  brothers in feeling
our way through the cramped, hot, dark confines of the passage. There
seems to be less air left in the shaft with each passing minute, and
all the time I remain well aware that the only barrier separating me
from the swarm is that metal seal which I am glad I took the time to
replace.

After some minutes, there comes the sounds of
shouting and commotion from ahead. Trapped at the rear, I can do
nothing but urge the Atlanteans ahead of me to move faster—but
they are just as trapped as I.

The noise lasts only a short while, and then all
is silence again, but for the scraping and heavy breaths of our slow
progress.

At last, a dull orange light ahead makes visible
the moving shapes of the bodies ahead of me. I press against them,
eager for escape, which comes in the form our disordered emergence,
through one dimly lit stone chamber into a second populated by a few
dozen Atlanteans—and five others.

They are Chrysioi surely. Four kneel, two male
and two female, while a third male lies face down on the cavern
floor, restrained there by three Atlanteans, one of whom kneels on
his bloodied head. It is immediately clear that what I behold is the
aftermath of some hostile encounter just ended, with these five
Chrysioi winding up our prisoners.

I am keenly interested in learning more from and
about them, but another concern sets me to scanning the faces of the
Atlanteans in the chamber. My eyes do not quickly find the object of
their search, Ayessa. It also seems to me that there are fewer of us
than I had thought made it safely into the mountain.

Before I can conduct a more thorough search for
Ayessa to set my mind at ease, Crow approaches with explanation.

"When the first of us arrived, the Chrysioi
were stepping into a disc of bright light on the floor," he
says. "A skirmish broke out—I'm not certain which side
started it. It lasted hardly a minute. By its end, the light had
faded and we had prevented these five of theirs from entering it."
He hesitated, adopting  a grave expression. "About ten of
ours went through."

"Ayessa?" I gasp. With greater
urgency, I search the faces around me, already knowing it to be in
vain.

"She was among those who... left."

I want to curse Crow for failing to protect her,
but I know it is not his fault. Even if it were, it is not the time
for recriminations.

"Ayessa... all of them," Crow said,
"went willingly. They ran into the light as it began to shrink.
They 
escaped
. Would that we all could have done
likewise."

 With some difficulty, I set aside my
irrational concern for the woman whom I know I loved in another life,
and I make my way to stand before the prisoners.

“Have you questioned them?” I ask.

“Briefly,” answers Crow, at my
shoulder. “Only to ask what the light was. The woman with the
strange hair answered. She seems the most inclined of them to
cooperate.”

I have no trouble determining which of the two
kneeling Chrysioi females is the one to whom Crow refers: her hair is
iridescent, glowing first one pale hue and then another. She gazes up
at me with bright eyes, wearing an expression that is guarded and
somewhat worried, but not overtly hostile.

“What was her answer?” I ask of
Crow, looking upon the woman without sympathy. I know not yet what
their fate is to be.

“A portal,” he informs me, “leading
into some other world, where the Chrysioi hope to find sanctuary from
the Myriad.”

“What world?” This question I direct
at the female prisoner.

“We don't know,” she answers
swiftly. “We know only that it is habitable, unlike most that
Medea has found. It was—”

“Iris, don't talk to them!”

I aim a glare at the speaker, the second female
prisoner, who is dark-haired and evidently darker, too, in opinion of
her captors.

“It's alright, Daphne,” the other,
Iris, calmly assures her. “I can tell they are reasonable.”

She does not sound so certain.

“Iris,” I say, returning my
attention to her. “Yes, we are very reasonable. Like you and
your folk, we wish only to survive. Will you help us to do that?”

“I will try,” Iris says. “But
first, would you answer a question for me?”

“If I can.”

“The Cyclops, Pyrakmon...” I see
worry cloud her bright eyes, and they alone tell me what she wishes
to know and why. “He did not... Is he... ?”

“He gave his life to save us,” I
answer. “I am glad I had the honor of knowing him, even if for
so short a time. Was he friend to you?”

Iris's head sinks, and a cascade of shimmering
colors falls over her face. “Before the Myriad,” she
begins after a mournful silence, “I thought all his kind to be
savage and brutal, but...” Her voice chokes. “He was so
kind. He saved my life several times, and yes... yes, he was my
friend.” A tear slides from her cheek to darken the floor of
smooth stone.

“Your fate is tied to ours,” I say.
“Let us do right by noble Pyrakmon by escaping this mountain.
All of us together. Is there any way that might be achieved?”

“We must reopen the portal.”

This contribution, spoken quite casually, comes
from yet another of the Chrysioi, one of the kneeling males, who has
a head full of blond curls. Of the prisoners, it is on his face alone
that I see no trace of either worry or animosity; his manner is
almost careless.

“How?” I demand. “We have no
witch.”

“That we know of,” Crow observes,
accurately, if unhelpfully.

“The portal yet exists,” the male
Chrysioi declares. “See it there, at the center of the graven
circle.” He angles his head. “It is merely too small for
any of us who happen to be larger than a gnat.”

Looking as directed, I observe a nearby area
where the stone floor is etched with a circle, within which radial
lines converge on a central depression where, squinting, I glimpse a
tiny fleck of white light.

“How can it be... enlarged?”

“With blood,” Iris volunteers. “That
of a sacrifice. Medea used a goat.”

“We have no goat,” I say.

With a smile, Crow once again adds, “That
we know of.”

“Iris, shut your mouth!” yells the
Chrysioi whose face is pinned to the floor, prompting the Atlanteans
restraining him to press him harder against the stone.

“If we need a sacrifice, the choice is
clear!” one of those men says.

“No,” I correct him. “It is
not that simple.”

“Then who?” This from Crow. “Surely
not one of us, and not—” A nod at Iris.

“If what we desire is a future in another
world,” I reason, “I hardly think the best course is war
with the Chrysioi, which is a likely outcome if we murder one of
theirs. We must show good faith and make peace with Ares. And do not
forget”—I surely could not—“that they may
hold some number of Atlanteans prisoner.”

“By all appearances, they were ready to
leave us for dead...” Crow remarks, almost idly. He does not
relish opposing me.

“Pyrakmon told me, before he died,”
I say, “that the Chrysioi are not of one mind when it comes to
us. We must persuade them to accept us as allies.”

“Who made you leader?” challenges
the same man who moments ago had suggested sacrificing a Chrysioi.

“I lead because it feels natural to me,”
I say with a glare, perturbed by this waste of breath and time. I put
hand to sword hilt. “If some challenger wishes to come forward,
then perhaps blood will be easier to come by after all.”

The man scowls, but my threat works to deter
him.

I address the Chrysioi: “Might any more
living animals be found inside this mountain?”

None are quick to answer. It is the
yellow-haired male Chrysioi who speaks first. “We five are of
Olympus, not this bleak realm, so we know not. But whatever it is you
choose to do, best make it quick. The greater beasts of the Myriad
soon will come and coat this mountain in acid slime, reducing it, and
us, to puddles. I worry not for myself, as I have survived four
Myriad swarms before this, and doubtless will survive this one, some
way or other. But my companions are not blessed with my good
fortune.”

“No, Kairos, we are cursed with yours,”
grumbles the only Chrysioi captive yet to have spoken, a
weather-beaten, bearded male wearing garments of fur.

“Kairos...” I repeat. I know what
the word means in the language of the Chrysioi, the one which we
Atlanteans speak with our once-dead tongues. His name is
Luck
.
“Explain,” I demand of them.

“There is little to explain,” Kairos
says. “I have a habit of surviving. No more than that.”

I look to the bearded one in furs, who only
scowls and averts his face.

Kairos snorts. “Aristaeus's temperament is
better suited to his flocks.”

At that moment, Crow nudges me and calls my
attention to the open entrance to the adjacent room, where we entered
the mountain through the shaft; the room has begun to fill with green
mist.

“What did he mean, cursed?” I ask
Kairos. Although I am acutely aware of the need for haste, I have the
sense of being near to some solution which will spare us the need to
slay one of their number or ours.

Lighthearted Kairos frowns, but even that
expression is somehow cheerful. “He refers to the fact that in
all four cases, I was the sole survivor of said swarms. My fellow
Olympians now consider my presence somewhat... unwelcome.”

“But your good fortune,” I press,
“it is real?”

He cocks his golden head. “Real enough.”

I draw my sword, step forward and set its point
in the hollow of Kairos's throat. “Well then, my new friend,
here is what will happen,” I say. “You and I will take a
walk inside this mountain, and you will find me some suitable
creature to serve as sacrifice. And if you do not, then you will
serve the purpose yourself.”

Kairos, to his credit, and lending credence to
his claim, or at least his belief in it, does not shrink from my
blade or appear afraid. “Did you not earlier speak of good
faith and alliance with my people?”

“I did,” I reply. “And then
you told me that your people might not particularly grieve your
loss.”

Kairos scowls, then laughs. Carefully, under my
sword point, he rises. “Very well,” he says. “Let
us put your plan to the test.”

While I go with Kairos alone down one of three
passages which lead away from the chamber in which we stand, I direct
Crow and seven more Atlanteans to split up and explore the remaining
two, leaving roughly thirty Atlanteans left behind to dissuade rash
action on the part of the Chrysioi captives. None question my
commands.

“How many Chrysioi await us in this other
world?” I ask of Kairos as we walk through a tunnel carved into
the mountain itself. I know not the source of the dull orange light
which allows us to see; it is some witchery, I suppose.

Kairos laughs, something he does frequently.
Since he is, for the moment, my enemy, I feel that should aggravate
me. On the contrary, it inclines me to like him more than otherwise I
might.

“You have a sword at my back, and your
current plans include executing me. Tell me truthfully, if our places
were reversed, would you give an honest answer to that question?”

“Likely not,” I confess. “But
I assure you of two things. I have no wish whatever to kill you, and
I desire only peaceful coexistence with the Chrysioi. If we are lucky
enough to escape this mountain and find your people, I hope you will
help me to convince them of that.”

“Assurances! Zeus assured us of the
Myriad's defeat, and so did his brothers and all the rest. But...”
Kairos shrugs. “For all that my people will listen to someone
they wouldn't bother to miss,” he says, using my words against
me, “I will plead your case when I rejoin them in the next
world.
If
any of
you are lucky enough to be with me.”

Now I allow myself a brief laugh, quickly
stifled by thoughts of death, mine and Ayessa's.

We search chamber after chamber—some bare,
others sparsely furnished, others lavishly decorated with all manner
of treasure. What we do not find is any sign of life. Our progress
ends at a locked door of metal which is warm to the touch, which
Kairos claims, believably, to have no knowledge of or ability to
open.

We turn back and slowly retrace our path. My
thoughts are grim ones, of being forced to carry through with my
threat to slaughter Kairos, even lacking certainty, as I do, that
doing so will achieve the intended result of reopening Medea's
portal. Kairos himself, as we return in failure, does not seem
worried by the prospect of his death. His belief in his own good
fortune, it would seem, is ironclad.