Pitchfork Page 20

  “Perhaps,” Poseidon agreed, “but maybe not?”

  “You truly believe they would refuse to bow to her?” Zeus asked incredulously, his perfectly sculpted eyebrows rising in disbelief.

  “Her?” Poseidon continued, “I think they would, but bow to the Old Ones? Perhaps not. There is the chance they will do whatever their beloved Hades requires of them.” He quickly held out a hand for Zeus to let him finish his thought before spewing his disagreement. “It is just the Old Ones have made no move toward the Underworld in any way. It could be because they are biding their time until they are at full strength, but perhaps there is another reason. When our father built the ancient fortress that is now our sanctuary, he raised it in-between Tartarus and Elysium. Our ancestors built their reign in-between heaven and hell, yet they only built the fortress. Hell predates even our father, the first and greatest Titan, which can only mean that it existed during the Old Ones’ reign. Have you ever stopped to wonder why there are beasts in the depths vicious enough to slaughter the divine? How is it they possess such raw power, that they ripped a Titan to shreds before Cronus sealed the door? If we are the gods almighty, then how can that dog, that lion, and those snakes that live within Hydra end us? Those god-killers came into existence even before our Cronus did. What if this is why they are so savage? What if they were birthed to defy a whole different breed of gods?”

  “You think they were created to guard the Underworld against the Old Ones?” Zeus asked.

  “I believe it is a possibility. You have heard the stories Hades and Medusa told of them, how human lives were mere playthings to them. Perhaps that abomination Kerberos was put there to protect the souls of those who earned Elysium. The old gods are disfigured from the many times they performed the Touch of the Gods. Kill the body, the soul crosses the river to eternity; perform the Touch, and there is nothing left. Maybe the universe saw fit to defend the shades from the deformed deities. Perhaps they are still doing just that.”

  “And you are willing to bet our lives and the survival of earth on a theory that Hades’ beasts were created to protect the Underworld and all who remain inside?” Zeus asked incredulously.

  “It makes sense. Nothing has changed for them in centuries. They keep the unwanted out and the darkness in.”

  “Everything has changed. Their mother is one of those deformed gods now, and I cannot stake the lives of everyone I love on them rising against her when Hades finally comes for us.”

  “Whether you agree or not, brother,” Poseidon said, nodding his head in Alkaios’ direction alerting Zeus that the king of the Underworld was returning, “they seem to be the only thing that is standing between us and destruction.”

  “Well, I am not willing to take that gamble; that they will protect me from her,” Zeus said, lowering his voice.

  “Then what do you intend on doing?”

  “Conceal my absence for me,” Zeus answered, flicking his eyes toward Alkaios. “We need the protection of someone whose loyalty does not lie with Hades, one Alkaios knows nothing about, and I aim to find such a creature.”

  “And where will you find such a beast?” Poseidon asked. Zeus shifted his gaze off into the distance, and Poseidon followed suit. Obscured by smoke, they could see nothing, but Poseidon knew what his brother looked toward. The snow-peaked mountain that loomed unseen in that direction.

  “He will not help us,” Poseidon said.

  “Then I will make him,” Zeus growled, deep venom in his voice.

  Zeus paused at the base of the mountain, peering up despite that fact that even on a clear day where the sky was a crystal sea the snowcaps were invisible peaks in the heavens. But now as he stood, eyes stinging from the acrid smoke, he could barely make out crevasses to be used for finger holds for his immediate climb. Under ideal circumstances, this ascent was nearly impossible, as both god and man alike had to ascend hand over foot, clutching impossibly small cracks in the sheer rock. Forced to ascend as equals, all faced almost certain death on this mountain; the higher the rise, the further the plummet to earth. Zeus would have to scale miles of treachery with nothing but his iron will and brute strength to carry him heavenward, but it must be done. It was necessary he reach the top, and so with a heavy breath, he slung the thunderbolt across his back and dug his fingertips into the stone.

  It was not long before Zeus’ muscles burned with fatigue. The rock lacked anything more than insignificant footholds, and his legs cramped painfully. His fingers were raw from being shoved into crevasses too small for his large hands, and his biceps struggled to haul his tremendous weight skyward. His neck spasmed as he craned to see past the ash-littered clouds. He was not even halfway, yet Zeus felt he could go no further.

  With a roar that shook the peak beneath him, Zeus bellowed heavenward and hoisted himself one more foot, clasping the rock with raw fingertips. Slick from blood, his grip slid from its hold, and he plummeted earthward with a stunning decline. Clawing at the stone, his massive body hurtled down as gravity fought to claim him, the crevasses too small to seize at this speed. Zeus twisted forcefully in the air and grasped the thunderbolt. He ripped it from his back and with all the strength left in his aching muscles, drove it into the mountain. His mass jerked to a joint-wrenching halt as sparks from the bolt’s impact spit around his face. His chest heaved in an ashy breath, muscles fighting for control as he hung from the weapon. Zeus paused there, dangling for a long moment, gazing with frustration-clouded eyes at the distance this fall had lost him, the impossible climb made even longer. With a groan of pain, he shoved his fingers into a crack and wrenched the thunderbolt free. His coiled biceps bent and thrust. His thighs vaulted him high into the filthy wind where Zeus slammed the sharp tips of the bolt into the solid rock. It gave way under its sheer power, fissures sprouting in a web where the metal embedded itself. Zeus would not let this mountain beat him, not when the outcome of this brewing war might be decided by what waited in the heavens.

  Zeus knew not how long he climbed. The hours slipped past in agony and determination. He lost track of the minutes ticking by for all he could focus on was putting aching, bloody fingers over weapon over foothold. Every time he pulled himself up by the thunderbolt with shaking muscles, Zeus convinced himself to move one more time. That was all he had to do, move once more, and so each time he ripped it from the stone and launched his weary body into the air, he caught himself by slamming the razor tip deep into the rocks. Zeus clung to his perch, hanging impossibly high in the clouds and breathing heavily, and told himself to climb one more step. If he moved just once, that was all he had to do, and when it seemed the peak would never be reached, that he would die on this mountain with sinews frozen solid in seizing cramps, his fingers grasped the corner of a ledge. With a bellow, Zeus shoved his hand further, palm pressing flush against the rock, and heaved. He hauled himself over the edge with a groan. His muscles scarlet with burning pain fought this final movement, yet Zeus managed to roll onto his back in safety. He lay there far above the earth, chest heaving frantically to suck in precious air. The rock beneath cooled his spine, soothing the burn of overexerted flesh. His eyes felt heavy with exhaustion, desperate for sleep. Zeus dare not give in to their desire though, not here with his weakened body so prone, and so he haltingly pushed himself to a seat.

  The glinting sun caught his eye, and Zeus watched the golden rays crest the charred clouds. At this altitude, there was nothing but crystal blue and piercing sunlight. The ashen world was left far below in his climb, and as a result, this peak almost seemed untouched by the destruction as the new day’s light crept higher from its slumber. It dawned on Zeus that he must have climbed through the night to reach his destination, and he rolled to his feet despite the soreness seizing hold of him. A fresh day had been birthed, and he had only just crested the mountain. There was no time to waste, so against his limb’s protests, Zeus turned and surveyed the ledge.

  It was sparse save a small bush that grew next to a boulder. Zeus moved toward it an
d discovered its greenery hid a narrow footpath that wound upward. Grateful for the ease that the path provided, the wearied king of the gods set his feet to the trail and continued the hike.

  Refusing to give up so close to his journey’s end, Zeus placed one foot in front of another. His lungs screamed for rest as they burned within his chest, but he ignored them with stubborn resolve, forcing his body to the breaking point until the footpath ended abruptly with a massive sheer cliff blocking all progress. Zeus looked for a way around, but the ledge offered no other option. It was either up the wall of stone or down the mountain in defeat, and so with a deep breath, Zeus lowered into a powerful crouch and launched heavenward.

  He could not clear the cliff in one leap, yet as his flight through the air slowed, his fingers grasped the edge. With a wrenching jolt, Zeus caught the ledge. He clung there, body suspended in midair, and let the pain of the jarring halt seep from his elbow and shoulder. When the sharpness of his nearly dislocated joints faded into dullness, he threw his free hand over the ridge with a wild swing and hauled himself up.

  His stomach and thighs scraped over the razor rim as he drew himself to his knees, and the sight of an incredible mass met him. Zeus sucked in a breath as he gazed upon a sight only a few were ever blessed or perhaps cursed enough to see. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and reached around to where the thunderbolt clung to his sweat-stained spine. Zeus saw no threat ahead of him, yet that didn’t mean it would not come, for what lay before him was most likely guarded fiercely.

  XXI

  A nest, the size of a warship, loomed before Zeus, a magnificent sight to behold. But that was not what caused his mouth to gape open nor his fingers to tighten around the thunderbolt. It was the fact that the nest was crafted from gold. Woven entirely of golden wood, priceless items were threaded throughout its walls as if the creator of this glinting monstrosity had found glittering treasures to embed into the tangled braids. Some articles were exquisite, treasure the kinds of which could have only been stolen from kings, yet others were ordinary, mundane objects like chairs or fruit made glorious by their shining surfaces.

  “Few survive the ascent up my mountain,” a deep voice rumbled. “Most are crushed by the fall when their bodies finally give out, but a few are smart enough to climb down to save themselves from such a fate… Almost none make it to the top.”

  Zeus gripped the thunderbolt tighter, eyes glancing left and right searching for whoever’s low voice spoke, yet all that stood before him was the solitary nest.

  “They come for the gold of course, but not a soul ever makes it down with any,” it warned as the nest shook slightly. Zeus stepped back and watched in both awe and terror as a looming mass began to rise from the golden walls.

  First to become visible were black feathers that branched out from the top of a monstrous skull. They were more horn than feather though as they protruded. Dark tar bound them to give them the appearance of solid horns angled backward. As they rose further into view, a pair of eyes crested the edge next, peering unblinkingly at their intruder. Pale gold irises surrounding vast coal pupils glared down at him with eagle precision, and they never broke Zeus’ gaze as the beast continued to rise.

  Zeus swallowed at the face that met his sight. Short dark fur matted its head, and the snout narrowed to a point. Small black plumes covered the beaked nose and jutted on an angle toward those unblinking bronzed irises, and although the features were that of a bird, this monstrosity was no eagle. An ode to the demonic, its pointed beak, tarred feathers, and thin fur formed a face that was more dragon in shape. Protruding fangs glinted in its mouth where some of the beak’s smaller feathers had been ripped out.

  “But you, king of the gods, do not seem to be someone who would brave my mountain just to steal my gold,” the monster continued in a guttural and terrifying tone, and Zeus realized with alarm that the beaked horror was not speaking but communicating with him telepathically. Its mouth remained motionless as the ominous voice permeated Zeus’ brain, unblinking eyes staring down as it rose, ever higher, ever larger.

  Its thick neck broke the cover of the nest next with a girth of rippling muscles. The same dark fur that adorned its head traveled over the beast’s throat, which eventually gave way to a massive protruding chest and shoulders. Zeus had to crane his neck to see the beast that emerged, for its colossal mass blotted out the sun.

  The creature slowly lifted a giant leg and clearing the nest, stepped out onto the mountain. Zeus stumbled backward to avoid the treacherous clawed paw that shook the ground as it extracted itself from the confines of its golden abode. Zeus’ pulse quickened at the sight of the creature’s full frame. Impossibly huge, its front legs rose double the height of the blonde god. They were thickly muscled and wrapped in dark fur, and the claws on its paws grew razor sharp like swords. It was then as it stood finally in view, that Zeus realized the body was that of a monstrous lion, with a head deformed to appear as a demonic bird-like dragon, but that was not all the beast possessed. Folded against its back lay two massive wings covered in the same onyx feathers as its face except these were impressive, easily the length of a man’s arm. As if for Zeus’ benefit, the monster unfurled them to show the king of the gods their true enormity. It held Zeus’ gaze the entire time as it recoiled his wings and flicked its tail forward to curl around its paws. At the tip where a tuft of hair would normally reside was an array of feathers, some broken or bald, a battle-worn tale of its viciousness. The creature was a sight to behold, a monstrosity in size, and Zeus had never felt so small or insignificant standing next to another living being.

  “So tell me, Zeus of Olympus,” the beast finally continued, its words echoing in Zeus’ mind, “what brings you to brave my mountain?”

  “Griffin,” Zeus said, finding his voice as he addressed the legendary beast of the mountain. “Surely, you already know why I have come. Have you not seen the earth pale? The clouds fill with ash?”

  “The first gods,” the Griffin answered, and Zeus confirmed with the dip of his chin.

  “So you, king of the Olympians, have sought me out to beg for my aid?” the Griffin finally asked after a long moment of studying his unannounced visitor. “The answer is no,” he continued when Zeus nodded in affirmation.

  “You will not help us?”

  “I have not survived generations of gods by meddling in the affairs of earth,” came the Griffin’s cold response in his mind. “The wars that have come before and the wars that are yet to come are yours to fight, as is this one. I have never burdened myself with the dealings of gods or men, and your beseeching changes nothing. This war is not mine to wage. I will remain on this mountain as I always have.”

  “Do you think you are safe here?” Zeus asked, cold anger rising in his voice. “Is that why you refuse to help? Because you are protected by your peak? It is nearly impossible to climb, so the wars of humanity never breach your solitude, and you expect this time to be no different?” Zeus stepped forward, driven by purpose. “You are wrong. The Old Ones will not stop until there is nothing left. They will burn the earth, and once they are through, they will drain the seas and turn the skies to ash. You do not meddle in our affairs, but this is no longer just our war. It will come here, and it will cost you. Your mountain cannot save you, not from them. You believe because I, Zeus king of Olympus, struggled to defeat your elevation, they will as well? Their power is vast, and it only grows as the days pass. Eventually, they will scale it as if it were merely an anthill and swarm your nest in droves. This gold will not appease them. No, they will rip off your wings and cast you from this altitude, leaving you to plummet to the ground only to shatter into splinters of flesh and bone. Your fate will be that of all those who have tried to conquer this mountain and failed.”

  “Look, king of the gods,” the Griffin spoke, interrupting Zeus’ plea. Zeus bit his tongue and followed the Griffin’s gaze. The sun had burned away some of the morning haze, and the earth was vaguely visible. Zeus walked to the mountai
n’s edge and gazed down. At first the reason for the Griffin’s warning was unclear, but as Zeus studied the land, drawing earth into focus until the miles counted for naught, the slaughter that plagued the land pricked his vision like the blooming of blood after a thorn’s assault. Far below, the Old Ones were laying waste to a city, the horde nothing but swarming ants from this view. The screams of the dying and prayers for help bombarded his ears, and Zeus watched from the safety of this incredible height as one life after another was unceremoniously snuffed out. Among the mangled and deformed gods, one of bodily perfection stood out, dark dress churning as she killed, pitchfork dripping with mortal blood. The sight of Hades was a knife to his gut, and Zeus’ hand shot to his mouth to trap the horrified cry. Witnessing her annihilate without remorse, even all these miles away, constricted his heart, and a single tear slid down Zeus’ face as he observed what was becoming of the beautiful woman he had once loved.

  Zeus did not have to watch long, for almost as quickly as the slaughter began, it ended. A hollow silence filled his mind where the prayers had been, and the land that had once been teeming with life was nothing but a blaze of scorching red flames. Zeus looked to the Griffin, hoping that this devastating sight would be the motivation the beast needed to aid them, but the creature only made his way back to the nest.

  “The Old Ones are certain death,” the Griffin spoke into Zeus’ mind. “I cannot help you. I will take my chances with my mountain. It is not easily scaled, and that will be my defense.”

  “I hope you are right,” Zeus said, sorrow and disappointment clouding his voice. “But I am afraid we are all doomed.” With that, he started the long and treacherous trek down empty-handed, the pain in his body the only thing gained on this mountain.