The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (3 page)

Chrysioi
. The name by which these people
call themselves.  My flesh-memory knows  its
meaning: 
Golden Ones.

When the giant stops speaking, I swiftly entreat
him, "Know you who we are, good giant?"

"Pyrakmon is my name," he says in his
rumbling voice. "And aye, I know the form of that flesh you
borrow, even if I know not the borrower." He produces in one of
his huge, hide-bound hands a coil of rope, the same which I saw my
fellow warriors using to lash themselves together. "You had best
secure yourselves quickly," Pyrakmon says, "lest you become
hopelessly separated and lost in the mist."

I take the heavy thing from him, take an end and
begin fastening it about my waist. The others gather round me to do
likewise.

"Might I lash myself to you, giant?" I
ask of Pyrakmon. "You look as though you can weather a storm."

"Aye," he replies. "Do so, and
when the time comes, follow me with as many of your fellows as you
can muster."

Seeing no cause to disagree, even if I do not
fully grasp his meaning, I join Pyrakmon to our group, looping the
rope around his considerable girth. In an act that is only
half-conscious, I subtly ensure that Ayessa is tethered to my left
side, with Crow in turn on her left, that we might protect her. For
all I  know, she is our equal, even superior, in battle, yet
some primal instinct moves me.

The cloud, meanwhile—the swarm—draws
nearer. Now, thankfully, I can see that it has a trailing edge,
behind which the black crags and lava floes of Hades become once more
visible. Within the mist, it is just possible to make out individual
creatures, dark flecks which must soon see for what they are, each an
assemblage of thoughtlessly placed eyes, tentacles, claws, horns,
teeth. A faint sound reaches our ears, a high-pitched hum like a
chorus of screams.

Over the sound, as we secure ourselves, I remind
Pyrakmon the Cyclops, "You claim to know my form.    To
whom does it belong?"

The giant chuckles, a sound like a rockslide.
"Why, it was that of Ares' own son, Enyalios, who fell in battle
against this very foe. As did all your bodies before Medea filled
them with souls drawn from... I know not where."

"Atlantis."

This utterance comes from Ayessa, and causes
myself, Crow and the hulk to turn and look at her. I know that the
others recognize the name, as I do, though they have never heard it
spoken with their present ears.

Atlantis
. Our home. My brothers and
sisters and I are Atlanteans.

"You were to accompany them, but..."
the Cyclops briefly resumes before trailing off.

"Who?" I demand over the swarm's
unearthly, ear-piercing shriek. "The Chrysioi? To where?"

"No more time for talk!" Pyrakmon
shouts, and he aims a meaty hand at the plains of Hades, or where 
they would be, if anything were visible past the edge of our rock
shelf apart from a screeching, radiant  green mist.

"Spread out," the Cyclops instructs.
"And kill anything that does not walk on two legs!"

Seconds before the cloud roils over the edge and
envelops us, I grasp Ayessa by her arm and endeavor to look through
this new face she wears and see what lies within, that I might follow
her again into another life should this one happen shortly to end.

I cannot know if the effort succeeds.  Her
borrowed eyes regard me with little other than irritation. I break
her gaze, and mine settles lower, on a necklace she wears, or rather
which was worn by the body in which she awoke. Hanging from a leather
thong, it is comprised mostly of a large, sharp tooth, that of some
animal or perhaps a member of the Myriad, onto which intricate,
swirling designs have been etched.

As I stare absently at the tooth, an impulse
overcomes me which, if not for the imminent likelihood of death, I
might well have suppressed. But death is near, and I do not. I pull
Ayessa toward me and press my lips to hers. She gasps in surprise,
but does not resist. Her warm lips melt against mine, and the
nameless spirit in me, be it that of a warrior, a poet, or a madman,
soars.

The kiss endures for both an eternity and an
instant, and then—Ayessa stiffens. Her arms come between us as
her mouth turns away and forms syllables which resound in my soul and
become instantly familiar.

"
Thamoth!
" she screams, backing
away. I open my eyes to find hers wide with terror. "No! Stay
away from me!" She points her lance at me, backpedaling over the
rock shelf as far as the rope connecting us allows.

And then the monsters come.

I am Thamoth of Atlantis. I have just learned
that. It may be the first and last thing I learn about myself before
my soul flies screaming back to the abyss from whence it but recently
sprang, summoned into these foreign limbs by the witch Medea.

I am unaware of whether my prior life in
Atlantis includes experience of war. If it does, I feel certain it
was against no enemy such as this. But this flesh I wear, that of
Ares' son, has faced the Myriad before.    Perhaps it
remembers, as it does the speech of the Chrysioi. Drawing a deep
breath of the green mist, which stings the eyes and nostrils, I
endeavor to summon up whatever remains of Enyalios to help guide my
limbs now.

The glowing fog turns my fellow defenders
Atlanteans and Cyclops, into vague, dark shapes at the end of slack,
gently swaying ropes. My own legs below the knee are barely visible,
the rock under my feet completely obscured as if I stand in an
insubstantial cloud. In front of me, greenish shadows flit this way
and that, growing larger, closer. They gain in definition, edges and
tendrils becoming sharper, as the nightmarish shriek rises to
ear-splitting volume. Holding my breath, I raise shield and sword in
arms that twitch in anticipation of imminent life-or-death struggle.

Then, at once, the shadows become solid,
screaming out of the mist on erratic, unpredictable paths, brightly
colored skin, razor-sharp teeth, whip-like tentacles, shining eyes of
all sizes. They look similar  in form to the dead Myriad I have
seen, but not identical. Perhaps no two are precisely alike. They
flit about more like flies than birds, darting in every direction, in
and out of the mist, becoming horrific creatures one moment, shadows
again the next. Their frenetic movement makes it hard to know which
ones pose the immediate threat either to myself or to Ayessa whom I
am determined protect, that she might tell me more about myself.

Tell me why she fears me.

While I track indistinct shapes, a cry pierces
both the mist and the sonic wall of inhuman screaming. It is a cry of
pain and death, and it belongs to man, not beast. First blood has
been spilled.

A heartbeat later, from out of the gloom, a
blue, bloated sphere comprised entirely of fang-laden mouths swoops
straight at me. I raise my shield in time for the thing to thud
against it, unbalancing me. A yellow dagger-tooth drips clear fluid
an inch from my brow and a foul odor flows over my shield  rim.
The instant my balance is recovered, my sword stabs relentlessly in
and out of one of the thing's many snapping mouths, which grind and
scrape against my shield.

I yield a step, partly in strategy and partly
out of revulsion, then yank my blade free to begin hacking. I 
do not let my weapon rest; I cannot, so long as one of these beasts
is within reach. I am yet flailing at the creature pressing upon my
shield when a glimpse of movement to my right prompts me to send a
backhand blow in that direction. My sword connects with a disc-shaped
lump of flesh ringed all round  with jagged, bony protrusions.
One of them cuts my hand as my blade digs deep into the strange
flesh, but there is no room in this shrieking, green world for pain.
I scramble out of its way, pulling my sword free, and the disc
crashes to the ground near my feet. The blue sphere, meanwhile,
presses the attack with its countless, snapping maws. I turn my
attention back to it, cutting and slashing and breaking yellow teeth
now covered with the thing's own black ichor.

Finally the creature slides from my shield,
landing heavily on the rock. I draw a long-delayed breath that sears
my lungs, and I look to my left and see Ayessa's mist-shrouded shadow
fighting for its life, ending my brief respite. I take two steps
closer to her but am stopped by the rope binding me to unseen
Pyrakmon. I yank harder on the rope with my shield-arm, but it does
not give. Whether the Cyclops is alive or dead, I would not be able
to shift him on my own, and so I make a snap decision, slicing the
line with a flick of my sword, freeing me to race toward the
struggling shadows opposite.

Within a few steps, the shapes coalesce and
become Ayessa, in a crouch behind her shield, grip tight on upraised
lance. Impaled on the lance's end is a pink mass of wriggling,
hook-ended limbs that remains yet eager to press the attack, and
would if not for the lance keeping it at bay. Without a thought, I
scramble to her aid and slice into the hovering creature with all my
strength. Ayessa's lance dips with the force of my blow and slides
free while I continue to hack at the creature. In a burst of black
ichor, the thing falls the ground, where we both stab at it again and
again until the flailing pink limbs fall flaccid. I hasten to
Ayessa's side and stand there with eyes, shield and blade flicking
from one darting, hazy shape to another. Ayessa does the same, her
back to mine. At our feet sits the carcass of a second Myriad which
she has evidently dispatched herself before my arrival. I feel
relieved by that. She is a warrior in one or both of flesh and
spirit, as I have likewise found myself to be.

From somewhere comes a scream. I say into
Ayessa's ear, loudly enough to ensure she hears it over the Myriad's
screeching, "Move toward Crow!"

As I speak, a beast emerges from the mist above
to swoop down on us, its screaming, wide-open mouth packed with row
upon row of stiletto-like teeth. I set my sword to meet its charge,
and Ayessa spins and thrusts with her lance. Both blades meet flesh,
mine in its jaw and hers in one of its numerous eyes. Ichor spurts
from the wounds, running down our arms. Ayessa screams sharply, and I
throw her a look to see the spiked tip of a beastly appendage, a tail
or tentacle, fly off trailing blood. Red blood—hers. My heart
pauses beating as I think her lost. She cannot spare a hand to clutch
the gash in her shield arm, and so she just grits her teeth and
twists her lance in the creature's eye.

My heartbeat resumes; her wound is not a mortal
one. I continue to rip at the Myriad's disgusting, brightly colored
flesh. In a seconds-long frenzy of blows, the thing succumbs to sword
and lance, and we both take to swiveling rapidly left and right,
scanning for the next attack.

A shape emerges from the haze. We point our
blades at it, only to lower them. The mist is thick, but not thick
enough to mistake Crow for our enemy. A slack rope still tethers him
to Ayessa, but on his other side the rope has been cut.

"Our massive friend proved less capable
than he appeared," Crow shouts, his voice barely audible. No 
sooner has he finished than another death cry pierces the Myriad's
persistent shriek. I wonder how many of us there will be when the
mist clears, or if any of us will see sky again.

Did the Chrysioi even intend for us to survive?

I do not bother asking Crow whether he is
injured. All of his limbs appear to be present, and that will have to
do for now.

From out of the swirling green mist, another
shadow turns flesh, charging us from above. Between the  three
of us we slaughter it, only to have another to take its place, and
then another and another. Sometimes they come two at a time,
sometimes three. Thankfully no more than that, for it is all we can
handle. Somehow, we fight them all off and stand panting, bathed in
black ichor and jumping at shadows. We do thus for some minutes
before realizing that the shriek has faded from our ears. Tiny cuts
sting my arms and thighs all over. A gash on one knee causes my leg
to quiver. I look at Crow and Ayessa. Their eyes are wide in
black-spattered faces—but they live, and so do I. Laughter
surges into my throat, where I stifle it. We dare not celebrate, or
even relax.

The mist thins. With the lifting of its green
veil from our eyes, the rock shelf and mountainside take shape, and I
witness right away the damage done to our ranks. Among the piled
carcasses of every color, no more than forty Atlanteans—if
indeed that is what we all are—yet stand. At the start of the
onslaught, we numbered more than twice that. Those who survive are
bloodied, ragged, trembling, many clutching wounds.

As my bearings return, I look up to the cave
mouth from which we emerged after having awakened inside the
mountain. The tunnel no longer stands open; the rock above has
collapsed, covering it completely with boulders and rubble.

I know of an instant that this is no accident.
The Chrysioi have closed it off.

One Atlantean survivor near to me stands staring
off in the opposite direction, that from which the attack came, and
his look is one of utter hopelessness. I follow his gaze and see why.
The whole of the  fiery plain below us now stands blanketed in
green fog. What we have faced was but a first wave, a vanguard, and a
small one at that. The cloud presently approaching has no visible end
but stretches to the far-off peaks and beyond.

Their numbers are endless
, Pyrakmon told
us. For the first time, I truly comprehend his meaning. Whatever hope
had begun to well in my breast drains away. We have no chance.

I turn my eyes from the swarm and set them on a
figure which I am grateful to find still standing, nearby and
impossible to miss. Before the swarm, the Cyclops said we must follow
him when the time  came. That time is now, or else never.