Chapter 1 #2
The Great Roar that spewed from Pan’s mouth was even worse than before. Carver’s ears throbbed with it, his nerves rattled, and he struggled against the innate panic the sound brought out in any living creature. While he reeled, his enemy jumped to his feet, spun, and lashed out with a powerful hoof. Carver leaped back, regrouping. Pan tried to press his advantage, but Carver surprised him with a lightning-fast offensive, hammering him with quick, brutal strikes that put Pan back on the defensive. Carver drove him across the cavern, the bang of sword to shield deafening and constant. Pan stumbled, whipping his vine at Carver’s head in an off-balance effort to keep Carver away from him. Carver sliced through the vine, and his next lunge brought him close enough to nick Pan’s neck. Fear flashed on the god’s face. Pan’s eyes widened, the whites reflecting the glow of Bel’s flames.
Pan backpedaled toward the far wall. Carver closed in, cold purpose filling him. He struck hard and fast, again and again, utterly concentrated on landing the killing blow.
End Pan. Help Bel.
The words circled in his head, louder with each metallic clang and pounding breath. They needed to finish this before the tide caught them all.
Pan suddenly dropped the stump of his vine and used his shield to block Carver’s blows. His ancient face tense with effort, he dug in his heels, shifted his colossal weight forward, and rammed the shield at Carver, shoving violently with both hands. Carver stumbled back from the strength of the push, several quick steps keeping his feet under him as he tilted wildly. While he regained his balance, Pan conjured a metal gauntlet that encased one whole arm. The god jumped in and grabbed Carver’s blade with his steel-covered hand, his huge, metal-covered fingers snapping down. A savage smile lit Pan’s face as he yanked the sword from Carver’s grip and threw it over his shoulder. It spiraled away, hitting the rock wall with a dull clang that echoed in Carver’s head. He stopped short, his hammering heart plummeting hard. Without a blade, he was just vulnerable flesh. Waves crashed in his ears—already somewhere inside the cavern. Dread burned through his veins, as hot as Bel’s magic. Then reflex kicked in, and he ducked and rolled as Pan swung the heavy shield at him.
He popped up just as Bel landed on her back next to him. “They have tough skin,” she wheezed, her eyes meeting his as she touched the big hoofprint on her tunic. The bruise on her ribs would be vicious tomorrow. “And heal quickly.”
Satyrs closed in with Bel still on the ground and struggling for breath, and battle rage erupted in Carver. Snarling, he brutally kicked the creature pouncing at Bel away just as Pan lunged for them. Bel twisted and shot fire at him. Pan burned—and hesitated. Carver saw the exact moment the cowardly traitor decided to let his herd take the heat. Backing away, Pan flicked his hand, and more satyrs leaped for them, pouring in from the adjoining tunnel and flooding the cavern.
“Maybe you were right earlier about getting out of here.” Lurching to her feet, Bel threw out a bonfire of magic.
Carver, who always had an I-told-you-so in him, clamped his mouth shut. Dozens of satyrs blocked their only exit and surrounded them. He lost sight of Pan, who must’ve hovered in the shadows. Back-to-back with Bel, he drew two knives but didn’t want to throw them and be utterly weaponless, especially because Bel’s magic wasn’t limitless. It would eventually wane and then run out until she rested.
Water bubbled into the chamber, ratcheting up his anxiety. The next wave sent a foamy surge farther in. Missing his sword like a severed limb, Carver gripped his knife and punched a sharp jaw. The satyr reeled aside, but the ache tore through his hand. He pushed through the pain and focused on his next attackers, slicing a pectoral with one knife and blocking a short sword with the other. He threw both satyrs back, but the effort cost him. He staggered sideways, and suddenly, Bel and he weren’t together anymore. Satyrs cut between them, separating them as fast as the waves washed into the cavern.
“Bel!” Hotter and brighter than a hundred torches, her magic lit up the chamber.
“They just won’t die !” she snarled in frustration.
Carver fought his way back to her. She’d always needed to hold on to something to fully incinerate it. Her magic wasn’t killing them, and they just kept coming.
A horn scraped his back, and he whipped around, slashing out at a hairy throat. The satyr gurgled, his blood gushing out as Carver kicked him hard, ramming him into another creature and sending them both over. Water sloshed up his legs. Pan’s herd attacked from all sides, driving him away from Bel again. Only flashes of light told him where she was, and Carver’s whole body iced over with panic as it truly set in that he couldn’t reach her, couldn’t help.
He lost one knife to a jarring hit from a short sword. He lost the other to a satyr’s rib. It went in and wouldn’t come out again. The second he was weaponless, satyrs sprang at him and dragged him down—strong hands, too many to count. His knees hit the wet sand. Seawater washed into his boots. He leaped back up in a storm of dread, straining muscles and sapping energy to throw three satyrs off him. He was only free for a second before a heavy weight struck him from behind, knocking him flat. Twisting onto his back, Carver punched, kicked, and fought like a madman, water in his eyes and salt and sand in his mouth. Fire magic flared in the shadows. More creatures pounced.
“Bel!” This couldn’t be how it ended. They’d barely even begun. And all those years of him walking through life without even really wanting to be there seemed like such stupidity to him now. All he wanted was for them to survive this. To have more days, more time, more… “Bel!”
“Hold on!” Her magic brightened.
Satyrs jeered in his face, shoving him down and kicking. Blades flashed. They weren’t skewering him, so they wanted something—from either him or Bel. Hooves hit, and pain thudded everywhere. A wave washed over his face, and he held his breath until it washed away again. Gasping, anger boiling inside him, he groped for a stick, a rock, anything. He hadn’t survived this long just to die now, like this. Only sand met his outstretched fingers.
Half underwater, bruised and battered, he thrashed up, searching for fire magic and the scents of cooked sugar and hot cherries. Without his sword, there was only one weapon he trusted. “Bel!”
Her sizzling red braid whipped through his peripheral vision. He tried to follow it, but enough satyrs grabbed him to pin his wrists and ankles. They rammed him down, slamming the back of his head into the hard-packed sand. Pain flared in his skull, and water washed into his mouth. His head ringing, he spat it out, coughing.
Bel burned her way closer. She shouted his name. He shouted back for her.
A huge satyr suddenly loomed over him. Smirking, the brute stepped on his abdomen, crushing a cloven hoof so deep that Carver’s mouth popped open, and a gasp punched out of him.
“Carver!” He turned his head and saw Bel leap for a satyr, grabbing on to a horn and burning its head clean off the second she touched it. She hurled the blackened horn at another creature. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone!” Instead of driving the creatures away with her magic, she lunged in and caught another satyr in her path. It flamed up and crumbled to ash before it could dive to the water. A third turned to dust, no match for Bel’s inferno. More kept coming. She fought them off, but they were like a swarm of locusts.
Carver watched, his vision swimming and sound fading as his ears dropped underwater. So fierce —fire, inside and out. He always knew he’d die before Bel. She was too stubborn to go first. Too relentless. Too capable.
Rasping out the last of his air, he yelled, “Go! Burn your way out!” A meaty satyr hand grabbed his throat, pushing down and cutting off anything else he might suddenly need to say. Only a strangled sound leaked out.
Bel’s head whipped around. “No!” Along with her scream of denial, she let out a bright pulse of white-hot magic so sudden and intense it incinerated everything around her. Three satyrs deep, they vanished. Ash floated down, swirling around her and settling on her head like a crown of destruction. She stalked forward, hot wrath pounding off her. She didn’t even seem surprised by what she’d just accomplished. She looked ready to annihilate, and awe burst inside Carver.
The satyr holding his neck didn’t have time to move. Her eyes ablaze with blue-green power, Bel pointed a hand and threw out a surge of pure heat that demolished the massive creature. Glowing scraps of satyr dropped onto Carver. He turned his head aside and sucked in a breath. Relief filled his lungs until a wave half choked him. The satyr stepping on his middle burned next, and Carver wheezed out a rough laugh. She’d somehow done it again—fully incinerated an enemy from a distance.
Burning, furious, Bel killed every satyr that tried to run past her. Carver thrashed with new vigor, still immobilized by four huge creatures. Just as Bel aimed both hands at the ones pinning down his arms, Pan surged out of the darkness and grabbed her.
Carver shouted a warning too late, and Pan picked Bel up like a plaything and threw her on top of Carver. The remaining satyrs scattered. Carver hissed in pain, her weight a blow to his aching body and the heat of her immense despite the bed of water.
Bel gasped and cut off her magic, sparing him a roasting. They stared at each other in shock, her on top and him half drowning beneath her. Carver’s heart banged against his ribs. Time seemed to slow, then sudden movement yanked his focus from Bel’s huge eyes and firm, slender body.
Pan lunged. He dropped low and bashed Bel in the back of the head with his metal gauntlet. Her magic-bright eyes dulled, turning hazy. A moan slid from her mouth, and fear punched through Carver as she pitched sideways. She oozed mostly off him, staying just conscious enough to use his body for elevation and turn her face out of the water.
Murderous rage erupted in Carver. He tensed for action, his fading strength returning with a vengeance. Pan turned yellow eyes on him. Carver stayed still and groaned, hoping the pathetic sound would trick the god into coming closer. Raw and blistered skin marred Pan’s bare chest and arms, but he’d heal quickly. Carver didn’t even see the hole he’d put in Pan’s thigh earlier. He had mere seconds before the god was at full capacity again and ready to finish what he’d started.
Carver slid his hand toward Bel’s belt under the water. Waves washed in and out, each one higher. Water splashed over both their faces. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of her dagger, deadly calm settling over him as soon as he had a blade in his grasp again.
Pan dipped down, ready to knock him unconscious next to a sagging Bel, and Carver whipped out the blade, plunged it deep into the goat god’s throat, and ripped it violently sideways. Pan reared back, gurgling.
Carver surged to his feet, unable to see how Bel landed. He tore the blade in the other direction, leaving Pan’s head hanging by a thread, the bone exposed and vulnerable. The god fell with a splash, gushing blood. His golden ichor ran in rivulets toward the half-dozen satyrs still standing. Torchlight flickered. The creatures stared in disbelief, unmoving.
Carver took advantage of their shock and leaped for his sword before he lost sight of the glint of steel under the churning water. The remaining satyrs shook off their surprise and ran at him, but Bel abruptly pushed herself up and produced just enough magic to scare them into stopping. Knowing she was watching his back, Carver raced toward the god and brought his blade down hard on Pan’s open neck. Pan flailed, writhing in terror. Carver’s next hit sliced clear through the spine, separating Pan’s head from his body.
Carver exhaled sharply, his eyes widening. Victory drummed in his chest, and a wild sort of violence coursed through him. He kicked Pan’s lifeless body away from Bellanca. It sloshed across the chamber, the loose head swirling in the eddy, and Carver let out a sound that almost wasn’t human. He and Bel had survived— again —and he’d protected the only person who truly mattered to him on this godsforsaken island.
He turned on the creatures that hadn’t burned or fled, his chest heaving. Bloodlust was real, and he felt it rising inside him as fast as the water.
Bel struggled to her feet, the waves lapping at her thighs now. “We have to go before we’re trapped.” She gripped his arm, proving she wasn’t quite steady.
“What about them?” Carver’s voice resonated in the wave-washed cavern. He was ready to kill. Killing didn’t seem so hard or bad once you started, and this battle didn’t feel over—not with six satyrs inching their way toward freedom.
The satyrs made a sudden break for the tunnel and Carver lunged, grabbing the last one by the tail and whipping the creature back around to hold it at sword point. Bel came up beside him, her whole hand flaming in menace. The satyr froze, breathing harshly.
“What was Pan doing in Atlantis? Who’s his master and what are they after?” Carver demanded.
He saw the creature swallow. The satyr wouldn’t respond at first, but the prick of Carver’s blade convinced him. “The key. He was after the key. We served Pan. I don’t know who he served on Mount Olympus.”
“The key to rekindling magic?” Bel nearly touched the center of her chest, her fiery fingers hovering over her wet tunic, but she’d left her medallion at home for safekeeping. “How does it work?”
“I–I don’t know.” The satyr’s voice trembled as waves rolled in, crashing against the rock walls of the cavern. A first torch fizzled, flickering out. His eyes darted over the floating ash polluting the chamber and the body of his dead master, sinking below the water. “No one’s seen the Shard of Olympus in three thousand years.”
The Shard of Olympus. So the key had a name. Carver narrowed his eyes. “Then why did Pan think it was here?” The satyr shifted nervously but didn’t answer. Water covered their hips, and urgency rattled Carver. “Why?” He took a menacing step forward and dug deeper with the point of his sword, only stopping when a bead of dark-red blood welled on the creature’s chest.
The satyr halted. “All we know is that Athena found the shard in Attica and hid it here.”
Athena—Zeus’s daughter and ally. Core Olympians had been moving their pawns and weapons into place for months now. There was a good chance Athena had planted the shard in Atlantis around the same time Persephone planted Bel here.
“Where is it?” Bel backed toward the swiftly closing exit, pulling Carver with her. He kept his sword up and his eyes on the creature, who struggled toward the tunnel with them.
The satyr shook his head. “Pan said you had it. O-or could get it. That’s why he lured you here.”
“The joke’s on him,” Carver said bitingly. And on them. They’d nearly lost their lives, and all they’d gained was a name for something they still had no idea how to locate or use.
A wave sloshed up the small of his back. Water already covered Bel’s midriff. Soon, they’d be swimming out against the tide, and he didn’t even know if that was possible.
“Go.” He pointed the creature out, his battle rage fading now. He didn’t want an enemy at their backs, and this one had earned his life with the information he’d shared.
The satyr took off without a second thought. Carver nudged Bel ahead of him. He’d take up the rear, and there was no way he was letting her out of his sight.
“Let’s go,” he urged sharply.
For once, she didn’t argue.