The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (8 page)

I am loath to make fire, lest the smoke draw
unwelcome attention, but our several ordeals have left our Chrysioi
bodies hungry, and so we butcher the three-headed dog and roast the
meat far from camp, letting the fire burn no longer than needed.

For all but the four true Chrysioi among us, the
meal which follows is the first in memory. The meat is stringy and
flavorless, such that even though we Atlanteans lack experience of
having ever derived pleasure from foods, most are disappointed.
Still, the meal serves its purpose of restoring our strength. The
spirits of our company rise somewhat and we share such conversation
as can be shared by men and women who lack individual pasts of which
to speak.

In a somber ceremony led by Iris and attended by
all, the Chrysioi bury in the earth of this strange land the body of
slain Perseus, committing his spirit to Gaia, the Mother-deity most
revered among their people. It occurs to me that Atlantis must have
had gods, though I can no more remember their names than I can any
other details of my former home.

Knowing the danger of this land, I assign
watches. No one complains about the duty. Deep in the night I take my
shift with Kairos, whose friendship I am keen on cultivating. I hope
that if and when our two peoples are reunited, he will help me to
make the case for peaceful coexistence.

"The convenient thing about giants,"
he jokes as we scan the woods, "is that you can usually hear
them coming."

He tells me some about his homeland of Olympus,
which sounds to have been a magnificent country before its utter
annihilation by the Myriad swarms—a grim subject on which he
cares not to dwell.

Thankfully, no giants accost our troop. My
sleep, when I get it, is undisturbed except by visions of fields of
white-capped waves stretching from horizon to horizon. Come the dawn,
we rise to drink from the stream, dine on leftovers, relieve our
bladders and ready ourselves for another day which could as easily be
our last in this new world as the first of many.

"We must unlock our memories," I
declare to Crow as we embark on the steep descent to the valley,
voicing a resolution which I have made in the night. "Perhaps
the witch Medea knows how."

"Maybe she does," Crow concedes. "And
she might also have made us this way deliberately."

"I hadn't thought of that possibility."

Crow smiles. "What is my purpose if not to
think of the things that you do not?  Anyway, perhaps it is for
the best."

"Do you not wish to know who or what you
were before?"

"Of course I do," Crow says
thoughtfully. "But also I do not. There is something to be said
for a fresh start. After what we have seen, I am happy and grateful
to be alive. It may be foolish to waste time wishing for more than
that."

Perhaps his statement is directed at my case in
particular, perhaps not. I choose, without offense, to take it as
such. After some thought, I muse aloud, "The prospect of a new
beginning is not without its appeal. But I find that wherever my
thoughts may roam, they return to Ayessa. I know that I loved her
once, and that love, it seems, was strong enough to bind us together
beyond death. Yet... she fears me. I must know why. And I must know
if it is our fate to love again."

There is pity in Crow's sigh, and his smile. I
envy him his freedom from chains forged by a former self and I cannot
help but wonder if, unencumbered thus, he might not make a better
leader for our people than I.

A short time after our conversation, as I stare
down at Crow descending ahead of me, a new feeling comes over me.

Did I know him, too, in my old life?

***

That day, we reach the shore of the lake—the
mud of which indeed bears witness to the recent passage of a great
many giant-sized feet—and strike out across the valley floor.
By the setting of the invisible sun, we have chosen a campsite where
I intend for us to remain for as long as it takes us to explore the
valley and, if luck is with us, locate those who preceded us through
the portal.

We make the valley our home. We hunt and explore
and build shelter and feast and laugh and daily come better to know
ourselves and each other. We learn that among our number there are
two cases of male spirits having been reborn into female flesh, and
no fewer than nine of the opposite. None of those affected seems
displeased with the arrangement. Like Crow, they are glad for the
fresh start—theirs, by some measures, being even fresher than
his or mine.

We see and hear giants from time to time, but
are not troubled by them. They would appear to be like Pyrakmon's
folk, solitary creatures. On one occasion, a giant comes upon our
camp, halts and glares for several minutes whilst we stare back
tensely with blades drawn. None make any sound apart from the raven
which forever haunts the branches around our camp, easily avoiding
the rocks we hurl at it now and again.

Finally, the giant turns and stalks off into the
woods.  For days after, I double the watch, in  fear that
he may return with friends. But no attack comes.

To pass time, we engage in good-natured contests
of speed, strength, and various skills,  in which I am sometimes
victorious, sometimes not. Partly on account of the games and the
glory they can bring, most Atlanteans begin to adopt names drawn from
remembered fragments of our language. The names are single words that
have meanings like Sun Shining on Sea, Roar of Breaking Waves, Storm
at Midnight, or Gleam of a Thousand Stars.

The taking of names and playing of games show
that they have hope. I have it, too, even if the passing  of
each day makes it seem more likely that Ayessa is lost to me. A part
of me yearns to pass the burden of leadership on to Crow that I might
strike off into the wilderness and devote my energies entirely to the
search for her. But I resist that selfish urge.

Twenty days pass in our new home, each marked as
a scratch on a prominent boulder chosen for the purpose, a favorite
perch of the ever-present black bird.

On our twenty-first day in the valley, Ares
comes.

At midday, he strides into our camp flanked by
four men clad in dark armor, long red cloaks, and plumed helms the
design of which causes me to question whether they are men at all:
their  bronze faceplates lack any holes, even where the wearer's
eyes should be.

Ares himself I have never seen, but I know it to
be him on first sight, perhaps by some air of authority, perhaps by
some revenant of my flesh's memory, since after all, that flesh
belonged once to Ares' own  son, Enyalios. He has dark hair and
a neatly trimmed black beard, and under his tan cloak is visible a
metal breastplate bearing the carved relief of an awful visage of a
creature with a mass of snakes in place of hair. The sight of it
makes me cold, causing me not to long let my eyes linger upon it.

The first Atlanteans to witness the arrival
raise their weapons, an action unmirrored by Ares and his contingent,
even though the four eyeless fighters are armed with thick,
long-bladed spears.

"Stand down!" I command, racing to the
scene. Ares stops walking, raising one arm, and his escort halts,
too, proving that they have some means of vision, magical or
otherwise. On the Chrysioi leader's face is a thin smile. I take no
encouragement from this, for it could as well be the smile of a
would-be conqueror as that of one who comes in friendship.

I would make my own desire plain.

"Welcome, Lord of the Chrysioi!" I
exclaim, spreading arms wide.

He looks upon me, and I glimpse a flash of
something in his dark eyes that I know must be some mixture of joy
and sorrow at seeing the form of his son and hearing dead Enyalios's
voice.

"We have among us four Chrysioi," I
continue when Ares says nothing. "They have been well treated,
as they will attest. I have no doubt that the same is true of our
dear comrades who accompanied you to this place." My heart races
at the prospect of shortly learning the whereabouts of Ayessa. "We
are most eager for news of them. It is my fervent hope that our two
peoples can come together and live in  peace."

Ares regards me darkly for some moments, and
then at last his tight lips break into a wide grin.

"You sound nothing like the man who wore
that face before you," he says. "He forever sneered, and
his words were harsh. But I loved him."

I am cautiously heartened by Ares' words and the
tone in which he speaks them.

"I am Thamoth," I venture. "And I
did not ask to borrow this form. If I am informed correctly, it was
given to me by you and the witch Medea."

"Indeed," Ares agrees, and I sense
from him no bitterness.

It is then that the four Chrysioi arrive,
running up to Ares excitedly to kneel before him. Smiling, he sets
his hand on the shoulder of the closest, Daphne, and bids them all
rise.

"It is a great pleasure to find you safe,"
he says. "What of Perseus?"

"He was slain, my liege," the shepherd
Aristaeus reports.

"By a giant," Iris swiftly adds.
"Perseus left on his own, and we later found his body. These
Atlanteans played no part."

"A shame," Ares says with a grim nod,
evidently accepting the truth of her account.

"What of our people?" I ask in a less
demanding and more diplomatic tone than I would like. "Are they 
safe?"

"We have treated them well, as you did
these four," he half-answers. "They have chosen to dwell
with us. One of our hunting parties observed you from a distance days
ago. I come this day to invite you to join us and stay with us in our
city of Neolympus."

"City...?" I echo in puzzlement. How
can they have built a city in a span of days? But these Chrysioi
appear to be a people accustomed to magical feats, and I do not wish
to seem ignorant, and so I do not question him beyond the one word I
let slip.

"You lead these folk?" Ares asks of
me, and smiles once more. "That fails to surprise me."

"We are deeply grateful for your offer,"
I reply. "But the decision to accept it cannot be mine alone.
We  must have time to confer."

Not too much time, I secretly hope, for that
will but delay the reunion for which I, perhaps foolishly, yearn. Yet
I must not sacrifice the welfare of my brethren to my own impatience.

"And we must know more," I go on.
"Foremost, why did you leave us to die?"

"Medea and I gave you your new lives,"
Ares answers. His look is apologetic. "But others found the
idea... distasteful."

"Such as your wife."

"Yes, Enyo among them," he says
dismissively. "I have not long been ruler of the Chrysioi. The
position was thrust upon me. First my father fell to the Myriad, and
then my uncles, and lastly my sister Athena. I could not simply
dismiss the will of my people—no more than could you. And time
was  short. With my brother Hephaestus, who also favored you, I
crafted the imperfect compromise of condemning you all to a death
which was not certain. Leaving it to fate, as it were." He
smiles. "I was most pleased to learn that you did not all
perish."

"More than half of us did," I remind
him, in grave tones.

"As I said... an imperfect solution."

"Very well," I concede. I have no love
for his cold reasoning, but I understand and accept it, whether as a
result of my experiences in this life or the last, or both. "Answer
me this. If we come to dwell with you, must we recognize you as our
ruler?"

Ares throws his hands wide. "Quite plainly,
I command in Neolympus," he says. "But I assure you I am no
tyrant. I will gladly accept you... Thamoth, was it?... as your
people's chosen representative. You may govern your own daily
affairs, and in larger matters, your voice will be heard.
You... 
Atlanteans
... shall be equal to Chrysioi in all
matters, and treated no differently."

I absorb this, studying Ares. Though he is sharp
of eye and warlike in appearance, I detect no malice in  him.
Yet my perception might be clouded by my own eagerness to visit
Neolympus and obtain the answers I seek...

"We trust you," I declare, heedless of
whether it is true. Leaders must speak pleasing falsehoods, as I hope
that Ares himself is not doing. "This is no light decision. We
must discuss the matter among ourselves."

Perched on the great rock at the center of our
camp, the raven caws sharply, drawing Ares' gaze. Looking back at me,
he responds, "Naturally. I must return to Neolympus, but I will
leave with you one  of my Spartioi." He gestures at one of
the four cloaked and armored spear-wielders which arrived with him.
Helms covering their faces entirely, they could have been statues for
all that they moved. "When you have reached your decision,
merely bid him either to lead you to Neolympus or to return there on
his own."

I look at the warrior and consider the name by
which Ares called them: Spartioi. In the tongue of the Chrysioi, its
meaning is 
Sown Men
, a name which lends credence to my
impression that they are something other than natural.

When my eyes inadvertently fall upon Ares'
breastplate, emblazoned with its hideous face, my stomach binds
itself into a knot, and I grasp that this, too, must be some magical
effect. These Chrysioi are powerful, it would seem, or at least have
the advantage of knowing themselves and their capabilities far better
than do we newly reborn Atlanteans. It surely would be unwise of us
to trust them too far too quickly.

"I trust you will not object if these four
guests of yours accompany me to their new city," Ares says next.

"They are free to do as they choose."

Looking at them, I know that for Iris and the
rest, it is no choice at all. They wish no further delay in rejoining
their fellow survivors of the Myriad's conquest of the Chrysioi's
three kingdoms.