The Legend of the Rift (14 page)

T
ORQUIN YOWLED IN
anger. I could feel him fighting against the confines of the carpet, trying to break through. We all were trying, but the material was tough and thick. We had nothing to cut it with, and no leverage. Our arms and legs were all jammed together as we rose up off the floor, being hoisted through the room we could no longer see.

I could feel Eloise's short, frightened breaths on my shoulder. I tried to put my arm around her but couldn't get the angle right. As thick as the carpet was, I could hear the murmur of Amazon voices chattering excitedly.

It wasn't long before we jolted downward onto something hard and vaguely lumpy. Above us, where the carpet was gathered, a rush of cool air entered—and daylight.

The carpet fell away, flattening on all sides. I had
to blink my eyes against the brightness. A field of grass stretched out before us. I squinted up into the bottom of a vast dome that arced high overhead, ringed with bright lights. It looked like some kind of stadium, only there were no seats. Surrounding the structure on all sides was a wall of solid rock.

I heard a deep, echoing thump-thump behind us.

“Jack . . .” Cass said.

I spun to see that we were at the base of three wide stairs of white quartz, leading up to a platform. On it was an empty golden throne, so studded with jewels that it seemed to be firing bullets of light. To the left, the team of Amazons stood at attention, each woman clutching a leather ammunition sash draped over her shoulder.

One of them lifted a polished white tusk to her lips. It must have been hollowed out, because when she blew into it, an enormous
blatt
echoed through the stadium.

A stone door opened at the base of the wall. Four more Amazons emerged, younger than the ones we'd met and dressed in finer tunics, with gold thread and inlaid stones. They marched in formation up to the throne platform, singing a strange anthem.

Nurturer of Persians, Grecians,

Spartans, Thebans, and Ephesians.

Bow thee to the temple goddess,

Wise and strong and fair and modest!

“I wrote that,” Herostratus whispered proudly.

“Figures,” Marco said.

“I told them to use the English version—and for once they listened to me,” Herostratus said. “Now bow down!”

As we sank to our knees, an old woman stepped into the stadium through the archway. She wore a crown made of antlers that seemed too large for her head, and her tunic was made of fine, silken brown fur. A young Zon led her by the hand, but she didn't need the help. She seemed to float as she walked, as if she were made of air. Her eyes were moist, the color drained from her irises. She stared straight ahead, and for a moment I thought she couldn't see at all. Then her head turned, her eyes settled on me, and I felt as if someone were running the tip of a knife from my ankle to my neck.

The Zon led her up the stairs and settled her into the throne. Immediately Herostratus stood up and bowed. “Would your godliness like the usual half hour of comedy and song? In honor of our guests, I have some biting political satire about the American presidential election!”

The woman reached into an ornately carved marble urn at the foot of the throne and fished out an ugly dagger. Herostratus's face turned white. Closing his eyes, he threw his arms wide to give the queen a target. “Here we go again. . . .”

She held out her left hand, palm out. Pointing her
gnarled fingers upward, she began using the dagger to clean her nails. In a voice hollow and raspy, she hissed, “No satire.”

Herostratus's eyes popped open. With a look of relief, he gestured frantically for us to stand. As we did, the woman stared silently. “Introduce yourself,” Herostratus mouthed.

I stood on shaky legs. What was the protocol for meeting the Greek goddess Artemis? “Um, hi,” I said, my voice a ridiculous squeak. “I'm Jack McKinley, and these are Torquin, Brother Dimitrios, Cass and Eloise Williams, and Marco Ramsay.”

She stared off to the distance as if I hadn't said a thing. As if she couldn't make out my presence in front of her.

“Say thank you,” Herostratus mouthed.

“So,” I said, “we'd just like to thank you for hearing us, O Great Goddess Artemis—”

She pounded her fist on the throne's arm and sat forward. “Do not . . . ever . . . call me by that name.”

I jolted back, ramming into Marco. “I'm sorry if I offended you, but isn't this . . .
wasn't
this . . . the Temple of Artemis? That's what we're looking for.”

“There is no Artemis!”
she thundered. “Tell me, do you mean that odoriferous javelin thrower Aeginaea of Sparta . . . or Alphaea of Letrini who hides her hideous face behind a mask, or that mousy twit Locheia . . . or Aphaea of Athens or Kourotrophos or Potnia Theron or Agrotera—or me?”

“I—I don't know!” I stammered.

“Of course not,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Every god—every last minor male god—has an individual name, oh yes. But we hunter goddesses? We are all strong, we are all excellent shots, so we are lumped together . . . under the name
Artemis
.”

She drew out that name with a nasal lisp.

“Wh-wh-what shall we call you, O Great Goddess?” Brother Dimitrios stammered.

She smiled. “I am from Mount Cynthos, on the island of Delos. So you may call me Cynthia.”

The name hung in the air for a moment, until Marco burst out laughing. “
Cynthia?
The Temple of Cynthia? That's a joke, right?”

The woman snapped her fingers, and the six frontline Amazons instantly reached for their bows and pointed them at Marco.

“Not a joke,” Marco said, hands in the air. “Not a joke at all. Oh, and BTW? That thing your pal Stratocaster does—popping back to life—that's not in my wheelhouse. At least not here. So, arrows, very dangerous. Just saying.”

“Up! All of you!” she said.

We stood, and the Amazons surrounded us. Slowly Cynthia rose, and two of the Zons jumped up to help her. Squinting as if the light were too strong, she descended from the throne, circling us. “Do you think they built the
most wondrous structure in the world—more than a hundred columns, a marble roof that scraped the clouds—for someone who could merely shoot a deer? Look around you. I was not merely a goddess of hunting but of something greater: womankind. I trained them in the hunt, tutored them in trade and in music, taught them to build and to read, helped nurse their babies. The Amazon race flocked from the mountains to worship at my feet. Then, upon the arrival of the Atlantean, it all ended.”

Now the Amazons were grumbling again, spitting on the floor, and muttering Massarym's name.

“Massarym was a scholar and a gentleman!” Brother Dimitrios protested. “The Massarene monks have devoted centuries to his writings—”

“This gentleman lured us with the sad tale of his mother the queen, persecuted for her scientific genius,” Cynthia said. “He financed the building of the third and grandest temple, after the idiot Herostratus burned the second—”

“For which I have been dutifully doing penance ever since,” Herostratus broke in.

“By the time that temple was destroyed by the Goths, Massarym was long gone—but only then did his curse take effect,” Cynthia continued. “We were banished to live deep in the earth, tricked into protecting his Atlantean treasure until the rightful heirs came to claim it. Our time here has been long, and we are ready to be freed from our task.”

I couldn't believe my ears. “We can help you with that.”

“The curse stated that we would be doomed to protect the Loculus against attackers, and that no man would ever succeed in removing it,” Cynthia said. “These were Massarym's words—no
man
.”

“We're boys,” I said.

“Speak for yourself, Brother Jack,” Marco grumbled.

She shook her head. “You have the mark. All three of you. Even with my eyesight, I can tell. It will be impossible for you. Have you no female among the marked?”

“Yes, but she's been kidnapped,” Cass said. “We're trying to rescue her. We need your Loculus to do that. Actually, you would like her a lot—”

“Silence!” Cynthia said.

“Wait! I'm going to get the lambda in four years,” Eloise said brightly.

The Amazons all began murmuring. Cynthia signaled Maximo over for a private talk. They mumbled in some odd language with their backs to us.

“Why did you say that, Eloise?” Cass whispered.

“Because it's true,” Eloise said. “I'm trying to help.”

“Hey, maybe they'll just give the Loculus to her, because she's a girl,” Marco said. “This could be the easiest gig yet!”

“See?” Eloise said, sneering at Cass. “You so do need me.”

Now Maximo and Cynthia were turning back toward
us, with grim looks on their faces.

Cynthia put a hand on Eloise's shoulder. “I suppose, dear girl, you'll have to do.”

Eloise's face turned three shades paler. “Wait. Do
what
?”

“Zons—prepare!”
Cynthia shouted.

Amazons were bounding over toward us with armfuls of battle equipment—shields, swords, quivers, torches, darts, tubes—and plopping them down around Eloise.

Maximo dropped a helmet over Eloise's head. “Acchh. Too big.”

Eloise ripped it off. “What is going on here?”

“The only way you can get the Loculus,” she said, “is to fight us for it.”

“Y
OU'RE MY BROTHER!”
Eloise screamed. “You can't let them do this to me!”

She was pacing the small, stone-walled gladiator chamber attached to the stadium. Outside, Amazons were lining the walls, chattering and passing around baskets of food.

“Jack will figure a way out of this!” Cass said.

“I will?” I said.

Eloise glared at me. She looked like she was about to cry.

“I will,” I said.

It was about the least convincing thing ever out of my mouth. Eloise's leather helmet drooped down to her ears, and the silk fabric Maximo had stuffed inside was flapping
out the back like a tail. Every time she turned, her sandals slid off her feet, and her tunic kept falling down even though they'd clipped it to the strap of her quiver.

“Look at those freaks out there!” Eloise said. “Look what they're eating! They're gross!”

I peered outside. The Amazons were passing around buckets, reaching inside, and pulling out cooked animal heads and feathered bird wings. They were picking their teeth with armadillo tails and having contests over who could spit eyes the farthest.

“It's . . . a different diet from ours,” I said.

“It's heads and butts and guts,” Eloise replied. She took her helmet off and threw it to the ground. “I'm out of here. I am not doing this.”

The helmet rolled to Marco, who scooped it up. “Hey, this would fit me,” he said, putting it on his own head.

“Then
you
do it,” Eloise said.

I looked out at the crowd. Their backs against the wall, they were far away from the center of the stadium. There, Amazons in helmets and thick armored gear were throwing spears, sparring with knives, leaping, racing each other. In their outfits, they all looked the same.

“You know, Eloise, that might not be a bad idea,” I said.

“Ha-ha,” Marco drawled.

“Seriously, look at them,” I said. “They're all about ten feet tall. You walk out there, Marco, all covered from head
to toe, and they won't know the difference. To them, we're all shrimps, even you.”

“But Cynthia—” Cass said.

“Her eyesight is horrible,” I said. “Did you see the way she was squinting at us? She's hundreds of years old. My dad's, like, forty and he needs glasses to see the fridge. Also, look how far away she's sitting.”

We gathered at the door. Cynthia's throne had been moved to the far end of the oval stadium. She was at least fifty yards from where the action was going to be.

She stood, and the entire place went silent except for a few deep belches. Through one of the archways, a team of four Amazons carried in a platform on their shoulders, supported by wooden poles. On top of the platform was what looked like some kind of statue, shrouded in a thick, embroidered cloth. Behind the team, two more Amazons pounded a drumbeat on animal skins stretched over hollowed-out tree stumps.

They crossed the stadium and set the platform down before the throne. Cynthia slowly descended the stairs. With a flourish, she removed the cloth.

Sitting at the top of a golden base inlaid with red jewels was a pearl-colored orb. As it caught the glare of the overhead stadium lights, the Amazons oohed and aahed.

“Warriors, scholars, women of thought and courage!” Cynthia said, her voice robust and piercing. “It is with great
happiness but a heavy heart that I inform you our Council of Elders has met and decided that we have reached, at long last, our day of reckoning!”

Torquin stared at the Loculus with greedy eyes. “So close . . .”

Marco took a deep breath. “Give me that Amazon uniform. Now. Before I change my mind.”

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Marco winced as Eloise plucked hairs from his leg. “What's up with the tweezers?”

“My foster mom used to do this,” Eloise said.

“I'm not your foster mom!” Marco protested. “The boss lady's not going to see my peach fuzz. Besides, have you seen Maximo's legs?”

Brother Dimitrios hurried in, carrying a huge leather sack—which he nearly dropped on the floor when he saw Marco. “By Massarym's spear—what on earth?”

“Where've you been?” Marco asked.

“Our dear friend Herostratus gave me some extra weapons,” Brother Dimitrios said. “But I was expecting—”

“Today, the role of Eloise will be played by Marco Ramsay,” Marco said.

Outside, Herostratus had emerged from another tunnel and begun performing a kind of clown act, setting fire to a five-foot-high wooden replica of the Temple of Artemis. It was pretty amazing looking, even in a small version—with
its rows and rows of white columns inside and out. As it went up in flames, Herostratus came out with a tiny bucket of water and tried to throw it on the fire, while Amazons rushed in from the entrances with massive hoses.

For a special crowd-pleasing finale, they quickly doused the fire and then turned the hoses on Herostratus—while he transformed into a pigeon, a cat, and a squealing monkey.

“I think they're almost done with the opening act,” I said.

Cass was wrapping the sandals all the way up Marco's calves to the knee. “You still don't look dainty enough,” he said.

“I could wear a tutu,” Marco said, adjusting his helmet.

I tied a colorful silk scarf around Marco's thick neck. Torquin pulled tightly on the tunic, trying to get Marco's shoulders to look a little less broad.

“Don't stand with your legs so far apart,” I suggested.

“Don't pound your feet when you walk,” Brother Dimitrios said.

“Can you make your arms look less muscley?” Eloise asked.

“Don't speak like boy,” Torquin said.

“Smile more,” Brother Dimitrios said. “You look pretty when you smile.”

Marco pressed his legs together, pulled his arms in,
tiptoed toward the door, made a pained smile, and said in a mousy voice, “How's this?”

“Terrible,” Eloise said.

“Ladieeees and ladies!” Herostratus shouted, to a chorus of boos and hoots. “Sit back and relax, 'cause now it's time for the main event!”

A whinny sounded in the stadium, and a masked Amazon in full battle gear—helmet, armor, spear—came galloping out on a horse through one of the archways. The steed was brown, massive, and powerful looking, and it reared up on its hind legs to the roar of the crowd.

“Where'd they get a
horse
?” Cass asked.

“Where'd they get two?” I said.

Through the opposite archway, another Amazon yanked on the reins of a second horse. This one did not want to enter the stadium, snorting and rearing defiantly. Now another Amazon joined the first—two nine-foot-tall women pulling on a beast that didn't want to move.

Finally the horse charged forward, kicking left and right and sending both warriors flying. It ran into the stadium, bucking and snorting, until three warriors lassoed its neck.

The animal shook its head side to side, but it knew it was caught. With a final fling of the neck, it turned its eyes toward our little archway.

“I think it likes me,” Marco said.

“Mounting the noble steed to my right will be your
favorite Zon and mine—Maximo!” Herostratus bellowed.

Maximo climbed on the calm, powerful horse and took a galloping lap around the stadium, to a roar of cheering.

“And to my left, battling for the Loculus of Massarym, upon the notorious wild horse of Mongolia known as Chinggis,” Herostratus yelled, “let's give a Za-Za-Zon welcome to the . . . er, precociously powerful Eloise of the mortal world!”

“Za! Za! Zon!” the crowd chanted slowly and rhythmically, then faster and a faster.

“Wild horse?” Eloise said.

Cass tapped Marco on the shoulder. “Go get 'im, Tex.”

Marco stepped out of the archway, taking tiny steps and keeping his arms tight to his sides. He lifted his right hand and waggled his fingers to the crowd, then began blowing kisses.

Cass was turned away, his eyes shut. “I can't look. How's he doing?”

“Very bad actor,” Torquin said.

The three Amazons who were handling Chinggis could barely keep the horse from bolting. They weren't paying much attention to Marco as he walked closer. But Marco didn't try to jump on, at least not right away. Instead, he walked up to it closely, mumbling words I couldn't hear. The horse snorted a few times, pulling at the three lassos, but its eyes didn't move from him.

He touched the side of its head and began stroking its forelock gently. Then, one by one, he unlooped the lassos from Chinggis's head. Freed, the horse pawed the ground once and bowed.

Marco dug his foot into the stirrup and mounted, to an explosion of applause.

“And they're off!” Herostratus shouted.

Well, one of them, anyway. Maximo was whipping her horse into action. Her entire face was covered with a thick leather mask; and as she leaned forward, she pointed a blunt-tipped wooden lance directly at Marco.

“They never gave me one of those!” Eloise said.

As Maximo charged closer, Chinggis reared up on her hind legs in surprise. As she came down, Marco gave her sides a firm kick.

Now Chinggis began charging, too. But Maximo had much more speed. I could hear her bloodthirsty “HEEEEAAAAGGGH!” echo into the dome—and the Amazons whooping with expectation.

Marco let go of Chinggis's reins and threw his arms out to the side as if to say, “Come get me.”

And Maximo rammed her lance directly into his chest.