CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN (26 page)

D’Molay sighed and shifted the bag of tools on his shoulder. It was getting warm now that he was no longer flying, and he really didn’t care what petty rivalries existed between the servants of various gods. “Show me what the beast did,” he cut in, hoping to move things along.

With the squad of Aresians in the lead, D’Molay was taken into the ruins of the shrine. Several vultures hopped down from perches on piled bones as the gods and men approached.

“It killed more than we could count,” Eros said as D’Molay knelt down to study the scattered, broken remains. “Didn’t leave a human alive.” Zephyrus distracted himself by puffing at the vultures, watching them fly away rather than looking at the bones.

With the bodies picked completely clean of their flesh, only the skeletons could speak to D’Molay about the beast. Brutal breaks told of powerful blows. Deep punctures were evidence of impossibly strong teeth. The tumbled stone pillars of the shrine told him of the careless passage of something huge. Unlike what he had seen from the air at the other site, there was no indication that anything here had burned or exploded.

“What makes you think the two attacks are related?”

“They must be,” the captain said, surprised. “Two strikes, not even a full day apart. It must be a single enemy. Olympus has few. Ares sees to that.”

“But the ground here isn’t scorched. This assault was different.” D’Molay struggled to his feet, wiping sweat from his upper lip. Although the soil showed no blackening from fire, it was uncommonly hot here. He began to wonder if perhaps he was wrong about no killing flame having touched this shrine. Shrugging off his bag and shoulder cape and dropping them carelessly, D’Molay stepped toward a sandy path. Its disturbed surface was a scramble of clawed toe prints tinted dark brown with dried blood.

“Which way?” Eros asked, confident that D’Molay could make sense of the impressions. The Council would not have chosen him if his skills were not up to the job.

“The beast is probably skulking in the damn woods,” the captain said.

One dryad slid effortlessly down the trunk of a tree to jeer at him, her angry words punctuated by other dryads rustling leaves and snapping twigs. “Artemis would give no sanctuary to one who has done this,” she insisted, “and would not release us to hunt elsewhere if the threat was in her forest.”

The soldier grunted, accepting her point. He turned his impatience toward the net weavers. “You sailors, pack it up! Time to move.”

Eros was still waiting for D’Molay to comment on the beast’s movements. He studied the man, who stood staring listlessly at the ground. “Well, tracker?”

D’Molay took a deep breath. He felt feverish and sluggish. Squinting once more at the imprints, he forced his body into motion, rising as he answered. “It moved southeast, away from the woods. Judging by its claws, it may be a digging creature. It may have denned. The land that way is suited for it, open and grassy.”

This revelation sparked different reactions. The dryads grumbled, for they preferred an environment of treetops rather than flat earth. The sailors nodded in approval. An open area was perfect for casting their nets. Ares’ men were indifferent. As long as they could get moving and had some plan to follow they were satisfied. But Eros and Zephyrus exchanged immediate glances of concern.

“Seven Hills is that way,” Eros said, worried. “Rolling pastureland, full of -”

“Food,” Zephyrus interjected, thinking of all the humans who brewed his beer and baked his bread. “We should hurry.”

The captain barked orders and his men formed up for a quick march, two of them hustling the sailors into the middle of their ranks so they couldn’t straggle behind. The dryads set out immediately, mapping out a roadway across the treetops as far as they extended toward Seven Hills. As the soldiers and sailors marched down the road that led from the stricken shrine, Zephyrus hurried to pick up D’Molay’s discarded belongings.

“Don’t forget your s-stuff,” he said impatiently, holding out the cloak and bag. D’Molay took his things wearily, bunching them up awkwardly under one arm.

“Are you all right?” Eros asked. The tracker’s demeanor had changed drastically since their first meeting. Certainly the sight of the tragedy would affect anyone, but there seemed to be more behind D’Molay’s subdued behavior than the shock of the scene.

“I am not well,” D’Molay said.

Zephyrus took hold of his arm, preparing to fly with D’Molay. Even through his clothing the god could feel rising heat. “He’s hot as a coal! You don’t have the plague, do you? We’ve already got a monster here, the last thing we need is disease. What have you been up to?”

“Zephyrus,” Eros interrupted curtly. The last thing the tracker needed was Zeph badgering him. But at the same time, Eros realized the validity of his concern. Just as the beast was a danger to the humans of Olympus, so would sickness be. “D’Molay, have your duties taken you near anyone who could have made you ill?”

D’Molay shifted from foot to foot, seeking a position that would make him cooler or more comfortable, but no stance he chose reduced his suffering. He considered all the beings he had spoken with over the past few days. Kafele, Mazu, and others he had met in his search for Aavi. Then it became quite clear why he was miserable. Glaucus!

“This is not an illness,” he confessed. “It’s a penalty. I told you I was under other orders.” Eros and Zephyrus waited for him to reveal more, which he chose not to do. He merely stood there limply, wilting steadily under the burning curse which had crept upon him the moment he diverged from the only two tasks which Glaucus had approved in their deal: finding Aavi, and seeking the river god’s lost love. “Let’s go. I don’t know how long I have.” Without further discussion, Eros and Zephyrus acquiesced.

In much the same way as they had come to the shrine, D’Molay and the gods travelled straight to the Seven Hills, minus only a slight delay when they had to land to retrieve the tracker’s tool bag which had fallen from his tenuous grasp. Still, they easily beat the arrival of the soldiers, sailors and dryads. As they landed in the pretty green hillocks, D’Molay felt slightly better. The cold air that had bothered him during his first flight was a blessed relief the second time, driving back his fever enough for him to focus his mind.

“Are there any caves, riverbanks, or ravines here?” he asked. “Those are the places animals that burrow like to be.”

“There’s a stream that feeds the Styx,” Eros said, pointing toward Ares’ Fort which was just visible on the horizon. “It’s shallow here, but the banks get deeper that way.”

“Fly me along it,” D’Molay demanded.

Skimming over the top of the stream was not as cooling as the airy heights of the realm, but still better than walking. D’Molay concentrated on the look of the earth near the water, seeking out any turned dirt or disturbed grass. Finally, he spotted something.

“Muddied water,” he announced. “Let’s land.”

“No. Putting you down right there would be like delivering you for dinner,” Eros decided. “We’ll wait for the others on that hill. Zephyrus can go back and tell them where we are.”

As soon as D’Molay’s feet touched the hillside, the feverish weakness returned. When Zephyrus released him to fly off at Eros’s bidding, D’Molay staggered and dropped to one knee. Eros tugged tentatively on his arm, but the tracker shifted away. Even with the god’s help, he had no desire to stand.

“Can you see the beast?” Eros asked. D’Molay responded by struggling with the ties on his bag until he was able to withdraw a spyglass from its depths. He then pointed it toward the section of disturbed riverbank he had spotted from the air. In his travels along many waterways, he had seen how creatures made their wallows by digging into the soft banks of sandy clay where reeds and brush stood to screen them from both predators and prey. As he suspected, the hump of a hairy back was visible if one knew where to look.

“It’s there,” he said, “just past that jumble of stone.”

Eros nodded, following D’Molay’s line of sight across the river and beyond the fallen ruins of an old watchtower. “Should I get a closer look?”

“Not yet. When the others get here, then you and Zephyrus can flush it out,” D’Molay said. He slumped into a listless heap to wait.

Eros scanned the horizon. He could see the treetops bending as the dryads bounded through them, and watched Zephyrus skim over the same leafy pathway, no doubt trying to flirt with the female spirits and risking an arrow in a delicate place. The soldiers and sailors had not yet advanced close enough to be spotted. Suppressing a strong urge to abandon the tracker and fly off to discover what was taking the men so long, Eros turned his attention toward D’Molay. The man looked desperately ill. His face was flushed, his breathing shallow, and he gazed vacantly at one of his boots. Eros wondered if he would pass out before the battle had even begun. The minutes they had to spend waiting stretched on in uncomfortable silence, until Eros noticed that the reeds around the creature had begun to stir.

He shot a glance back toward D’Molay, but the man seemed oblivious to the pending danger. The tracker was barely conscious and Eros had neither the time nor the skills to revive him. He sped away, darting down from the hilltop toward the trees and road, hoping he was moving fast enough to escape the creature’s notice. His flight was a double gamble. He hoped that the beast’s appetite was still sated and it would not immediately find and eat D’Molay - and this his own departure would not tip it off that the hunt was about to begin.

Moments later Eros had closed the distance between the approaching forces. Zephyrus swooped down in his storm guise, spinning the shafts of several broken arrows between his fingers. “I’ve got the dryads warmed up,” he grinned, showing Eros the evidence of their provocation.

“Why are you annoying our allies?” Eros frowned. Noting his friend’s furrowed brow, Zephyrus explained.

“They put up a better fight when they’re mad. Trust me, I know.” he winked.

“Lead them to the riverbank across from the hill where I left the tracker,” Eros gestured, biting back any commentary on the Wind’s theories about dryad motivation. “They can use their arrows to drive the beast out of the reeds. I’ll tell the Aresians to get ready.”

“We
are
ready.” The captain’s voice rang out as he jogged over with his unit of warriors and net men. “Where does it hide?” The sailors were gasping, taxed by the forced march. The soldiers of Ares regarded their distress with superior smirks.

“That hilltop, where the tracker sits. Beneath it, hidden in the reeds. The dryads will drive it to you,” Eros informed them.

The leader frowned. Normally, he would resist being forced into a defensive position; even worse, one dictated by a god other than the one he served. However, a glance at the lay of the land convinced him it was not a bad plan, considering the limited forces at hand. He extended his arm and addressed his men before they fanned out. “Remember Ares’ instructions. You watermen, stay behind the lines but be ready with the net.”

The commander had already begun to stride away as Eros seized on this new tidbit of information. “What orders did Ares give you?” Eros demanded. “This job is undertaken for the Council, not -”

“Zeus wants the beast alive. Captured, but not killed. What did you think the nets were for?” the captain called over his shoulder. Eros was surprised and stared after the soldiers as they took their places on the river plain. Why was Zeus risking more destruction in Olympus by sparing the beast?

“I bet they kill it accidentally,” Zephyrus offered lightly. “You know how worked up they get once the blood starts flowing. They don’t even look where they’re stabbing.”

“Then we’d better protect the tracker,” Eros decided. They reached D’Molay on the hill just as the dryads began their charge.

A great rattling and snapping sound enveloped D’Molay as bow wielding dryads surged down the hillside from behind him. He weakly drew his limbs close around his body to avoid being whipped by tendrils of the dryads’ vined hair and buffeted by edges of their wooden weapons. Contorting into a ball proved a poor defense. The dryad archers were clumsy once out of the trees. Several of them slammed into D’Molay and sent him rolling with them down the hillside.