The Immortal Game

by Talia Rothschild

48

  IYANA

  Iyana hovered above the battle and raised her aching arms to the sky.

  Wind howled down again, battering the enemy. Some staggered at the power, but it wasn’t nearly enough, so Iyana hurled her spikes at the monsters below. The wind perfected her aim, sending them slicing through the least protected parts—wings, legs, necks—then returning the weapons to her, dripping with blood, to be thrown again. Here and there a creature dropped from the blow, but she mostly angered them, distracting them so others could finally, painfully, take them down.

  Athena, thick in the fight, had long since stopped giving her orders. Iyana had taken that as permission to engage. As she fought, a few beasts had tried to combat her in the air, but they were nothing compared to the Gryphiekin. She grounded them with wind that battered their wings and shoved them downward. She kept a gust swirling around her, knocking aside the occasional arrow that targeted her.

  She pulled the last of her spikes back up into her hand and swept her gaze over the chaotic ranks. It was getting harder to tell friend from foe, harder to know where to aim her spikes. Beyond the seething knot of warriors at the break in the barrier, higher on the mountain, smoke rose from a few distant temples.

  Part of her yearned to stop those who had broken through, but a scream of pain changed her mind in an instant, dragging her back to the battle below. She needed to stay and help. She pulled back another spike, aiming for a minotaur—

  “Iyana!”

  Somehow the commanding voice rose above the din, and she spun in midair. Athena was locked in battle with a boar, seizing its tusks and driving it back with shocking brute strength.

  Iyana swooped over to the Olympian.

  Athena threw the boar to the ground and drove a sword through its chest. “We’re losing!”

  Desperation flooded Iyana. “What do I do?”

  “We need more soldiers to hold this line. Send them our way!”

  “But eventually you’ll be overrun—”

  “Unless someone gets the avyssos.” Athena met Iyana’s eyes. For an instant the battle seemed to slow around her, and she understood. Athena wouldn’t risk sending in another Olympian. They were too valuable, and the fight was too desperate. But Iyana, while talented, was disposable.

  And if Demitri was with Poinê, they might let her get close. She had a better chance than anyone.

  A flinty resolution ignited in her chest. An itch to fight, to really do something. She nodded. Athena threw herself back into battle.

  Iyana dropped her spikes into her quiver, then launched higher into the sky.

  49

  BRAXTUS

  Red-gold flames rushed from Braxtus’s hand along his blade, shooting outward at Demitri. His opponent raised his shield, the fire rolling harmlessly off to each side.

  Braxtus charged, then swung his shield like a blade over the top of Demitri’s. It crashed into his sword, sending it reeling to the ground. Demitri crouched and smashed shield against shield.

  Braxtus staggered away again, but stayed on his feet. Demitri turned for his fallen blade, and with a sudden surge of recklessness, Braxtus hurled his shield.

  It struck at just the right angle, slamming Demitri’s shield out of his grasp. The traitor grunted, and Braxtus guessed he’d deadened an arm in the process.

  “Clever,” Demitri spat, “but not good enough.”

  Weaponless, he sprang at Braxtus. His knee collided with Braxtus’s stomach, and he seized Braxtus’s wrists just above the flames, twisting them. He was forced to drop his broadsword as they went down, the slam jerking his helmet free. Fire raced up his arms, and Demitri snarled, jerking his hands back and pinning them with his knees instead. Braxtus thrashed, but Demitri struck him in the face, once, twice, three times.

  Pain tore through Braxtus’s skull, blinding him. Rage seared, and he forced his arms free, grabbed Demitri’s breastplate straps, and hurled him off.

  Demitri was on him again like an animal, but Braxtus roared, blazing with fire and shoving back, rolling until he was on top. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled his nose. He reached a flaming hand for Demitri’s throat, but Demitri twisted, expertly hooking his leg around Braxtus to flip him.

  They rolled for their weapons. Braxtus snatched his sword from the dirt, spinning to his feet and wiping the ichor from his nose. Demitri grabbed his sword and rose with his back turned. Braxtus threw himself at his foe, about to swing, but without even turning around, Demitri brought his elbow back, hard.

  It smashed into Braxtus’s chin, and he bit through his lip, lurching away. Hot ichor dripped down his neck, his head splitting with pain. Demitri turned around, eyes cold.

  There was nothing for Braxtus to do except retreat as Demitri released the full force of his skill. Braxtus knocked each blow aside, barely escaping being sliced to ribbons. Demitri feinted right. Braxtus moved to block, and Demitri twisted his broadsword down, driving it into his left thigh.

  The edges of Braxtus’s vision went black. He cried out. In his moment of distraction, Demitri crouched and threw his whole weight into Braxtus’s right side. With the sword still embedded in his flesh, Braxtus toppled to the dust.

  Demitri dropped and pressed his knee onto Braxtus’s chest, drawing his blade out slowly, maliciously. His vision swam, and despite himself, he screamed.

  Ichor slid down the edge of the metal. Demitri reached for Braxtus’s own broadsword. His flames had gone out, and the pain overwhelmed everything else.

  Demitri pried the sword from Braxtus’s fingers. He crossed the blades, looking down at him.

  “And this is how it ends.” Demitri drove toward Braxtus’s neck.

  Braxtus caught his wrists, straining to keep the blades from his throat—

  “Stop! Demitri!”

  Braxtus vaguely recognized Chrysander’s voice, bellowing at them. Demitri kept the blades by his throat, but eased up on the pressure.

  “Demitri, we need him! We’ll need someone who can control fire!”

  A snarl twisted Demitri’s face. “Why him?”

  “Because Poinê said so, you idiot! And because he’s the only one we’ve got.”

  Demitri jerked the swords back, pulling out of Braxtus’s grip. Then he kicked him hard in the stomach. With a burst of excruciating pain, Braxtus flipped over twice in the dirt, sprawling on his back again.

  He looked up through streaming eyes as Demitri pulled the avyssos from a pouch.

  No.

  Braxtus fixed his eyes on the orb. Demitri had it, not Poinê. Did Kostas know? It was so close, but as he lay there, shuddering with pain and unable to stand, it had never felt farther away.

  Demitri glowered from behind his helmet, angry red burns running up his arms to his neck. “I hope you rot for a few millennia before anyone pulls you out.”

  “Fates damn you to Tartarus,” he snarled.

  Demitri extended the avyssos and spun it.

  The world dissolved into silver and gold. Nothing existed except Demitri’s cruel face and the revolving orb in his hand. The metallic colors grew blinding as they swirled in time with the avyssos, around and around Braxtus. The avyssos grew larger, and then even Demitri dissolved from his sight.

  The silver and gold blurred.

  And then there was nothing.

  50

  KOSTAS

  The blast struck Kostas, knocking him flat to his stomach. His ribs exploded with pain, and he shoved against the ground, rolling onto his back.

  What just happened?

  He stared up at the gold and silver dust falling through the air. Roaring filled his ears. Someone else had the avyssos.

  Every inch of him aching, Kostas pushed himself up on his elbows. He scanned the trodden battlefield before him. Galene and Chrysander had also been thrown to the ground. Demitri stood alone, breathing heavily, fingers curled around something small.

  Oh, Gaia. Nausea struck him and his head swam. No, no, no.

  Galene ripped her helmet from her
head, as though needing to be sure her eyes weren’t fooling her.

  He’s not gone, Kostas told himself, forcing himself to sit. He’s trapped, he’s not gone.

  Braxtus had done this for him, for his plan.

  Sea-green eyes met his, and Kostas focused on Galene. Her sorrow, her sympathy, her sudden doubt cascaded over him. Time seemed to slow as their emotions intertwined, amplifying.

  Demitri moved, and Kostas’s eyes sliced to him. The traitor who’d exiled Galene from Olympus, who’d tried to kill them, and now … Kostas shoved to his feet. The traitor who had trapped Braxtus in the avyssos.

  Anger roiled within him, burning away any other emotion, any other thought. No. This will work. I’m going to kill Poinê and get my best friend back.

  “Demitri.” Poinê’s voice rang out, sending a shiver through him.

  Kostas turned to see the goddess’s smooth, pale hand extend gracefully. Demitri rolled the avyssos once, then tossed it. Kostas’s stomach lurched as the glass orb flew through the air, catching the light and flashing as it fell into Poinê’s waiting palm. Poinê curled three of her fingers around the avyssos and in the same motion, jerked her index finger from Demitri to Kostas in a silent command.

  Demitri’s sharp blue gaze found Kostas. He hefted his sword.

  With shocking speed, Galene lunged. Not for Demitri, for Chrysander. She was on top of him with a knife at his throat before Kostas had blinked.

  “You move, Demitri, and I’ll kill him. Don’t you think I won’t, that I haven’t been waiting for this opportunity for years.”

  It was dangerous. So, so dangerous. Demitri could call her bluff any moment. But he faltered.

  Kostas didn’t waste the opening she’d just given him. He took a step toward the Goddess of Retribution.

  “Poinê! I challenge you to a duel.”

  She looked at him slowly, and a sheen of blackness veiled her eyes at the open threat. Her high, clear voice carried far. “You? A duel?” A glimmer of amusement spun through her aura.

  Kostas took another step toward her, taking in each of her emotions: frustration, disdain, a twinge of disbelief. He could work with those.

  “If you’re so confident, accept my challenge.”

  The goddess looked him over. “I imagine lots of people want to kill me, young god. I don’t intend to fight them all individually. This is war, child.” She spat the last word and Kostas could practically feel the venom she laced it with.

  He forced himself to stand taller, to ignore the throbbing in his chest. He forced himself to chuckle. “War is just a game, Poinê. And I am the God of Games.” He cocked his head. “I think you’re afraid to get your hands dirty. That’s why you keep Chrysander and Demitri close. That’s why you hide. You’re not powerful enough to stand on your own.”

  Poinê wasn’t remotely beautiful anymore. Her skin—now a pale greenish color—tightened over the sharp bones in her face, giving her a horrifying, gaunt look. Fury dominated her emotions, but to his grim pleasure, he detected a note of humiliation. Deliberately, threateningly, Poinê exposed the avyssos.

  Real laughter jumped out of him now. “See? Here you are again, relying on something else to do the job for you. Even now you’re going to use the power of the Olympians instead of your own. Understandable, I suppose, since you clearly have none.”

  She bared suddenly sharp teeth. “Don’t tempt me to prove you wrong. I would crush you.”

  “Then do it.” Kostas raised his voice, feeling his anger flare. “Let’s prove to Olympus once and for all who’s stronger—a lowly son of Hermes, or the Goddess of Retribution.”

  Poinê hissed again, and goose bumps raised on his arms. Her fury blurred her aura a deep red.

  She moved, lunging toward him with animal-like power, her terrifying face suddenly inches from his. A clawed hand clenched around the strap of his quiver, and she held him there with frightening strength. His heart thundered, but he stood his ground.

  “Accept, if you want to fight!”

  Poinê did not move, her black eyes narrowing.

  “Take your revenge in a duel,” he whispered. “Just you and me.”

  With a curse, she hurled him away from her. He barely managed to catch himself on trembling legs.

  “I accept!” Poinê snarled. “Choose your weapon, as it is your right.”

  He withdrew the Deck of Fates from his pocket. They grew warm in his hand, a familiar comforting weight. “Beasts.”

  Poinê’s outrage struck him, her scowl morphing to an ugly mask as she realized Kostas’s meaning. “No,” she spat. “This is a fight between you and me. We won’t be hiding behind puppets.”

  Kostas raised his eyebrows. “Believe me, there won’t be much hiding. Everything that happens to the beast, will happen to us. One creature will die, and one of us will die.”

  Her rage flared, and Kostas had to force himself to keep looking at her now hideous, fanged face. Her pitch-black eyes tried to swallow him whole. “Forget it. You’re a cheat.”

  “As soon as you accepted my duel, you became bound to fight me, and to fight me my way. I haven’t broken any rules—my choice of weapon is sanctioned.”

  The red of Poinê’s anger slowly waxed dark.

  “You really are clever,” she said so he could barely hear. “But pray for strength, God of Games. You are as good as dead.”

  51

  IYANA

  There had been another shock wave.

  Another had fallen to the avyssos. Either someone else had charged Poinê, or she was growing more daring.

  Strands of Iyana’s hair whipped free of the tight braid as she shot down the mountainside. She yanked on her wind, and it supported her, racing over the final ranks. There had only been one more group she’d intended to tell to retreat, but the moment the shock wave hit, she’d left them. It was time to stop Poinê.

  Her only plan was to use Demitri’s feelings for her to her advantage. If that didn’t work, she was going to have to improvise.

  The last of the ranks fell away behind her, and she narrowed her eyes as she saw a group of … not three, but five people.

  Allies or more enemies?

  As she flew closer, she made out a young goddess with copper brown curls, a dark-skinned god—

  Her heart stopped. Galene and Kostas.

  Gaia.

  She hurtled toward them at a dangerous speed. Galene had her brother pinned, a knife to his throat. Kostas stood facing Poinê. She pulled up and lowered herself, landing a short distance away and running the last few steps. “What’s happening?”

  Galene looked up, and in her moment of distraction, Chrysander threw her off. They rolled in different directions, then stood. Galene’s eyes shifted between him and Iyana. “Kostas has a Deck of Fates. He’s battling Poinê in Beast Maker.”

  Her eyes snapped to Kostas. The real game of Beast Maker. Of course. She should have known he’d have a plan—

  “Iyana.”

  The sound of his voice felt like a punch to the gut. Slowly, she turned to face Demitri.

  She thought she’d been prepared to see him. She’d tried to brace herself to withstand her pain—to use him to get the avyssos. But nothing prepared her for the wave of fury that rocked her when she met his piercing blue eyes.

  His jaw was hard, anger simmering dangerously beneath the surface. “What, are you running back now? I mean, now that everyone knows we’re going to win this whole thing, I don’t really blame you…”

  She curled her hands into fists so tight that her fingernails bit into her skin.

  Kostas wanted to deal with Poinê and the avyssos? Fine. She had a score to settle.

  Wind rushed at Demitri, a quick, powerful gust that shoved him backward. He staggered a few steps away. She sent another one at him, then another. She stalked toward him, driving him away from the rest of the group, until they were isolated on an empty stretch of battleground.

  Snarling, he planted his feet and braced himself, so she c
hanged the direction of the wind, throwing him sideways. He caught his balance again and crouched lower.

  Iyana trembled with the strength of her turbulent emotions, reaching back to palm two long spikes.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he sneered.

  She lunged for him, wind lifting her inches off the ground. He snatched his staff from his back, but she spun inside its reach. He blocked her first blow. The next whistled over his head as he ducked.

  “Stop! Iyana, stop!” he commanded, deflecting each blow with his staff.

  “Why?”

  He shoved back against her spike, and she stumbled. “Because you don’t stand a chance against me,” he snapped. “And because all of this was for you.”

  She feinted, then swung again more viciously, and he jerked back before the tip of the spike could slice open his cheek. “Don’t you dare pretend like you were doing me any favors! You exiled my best friend, lied to me—”

  “Iyana—”

  “—manipulated me…” Demitri whipped his staff around, and she was forced to fly backward, the wind lifting her off the ground. “Pushed Kostas off a cliff…”

  He clenched his jaw, but there was amazement in his eyes as he tracked her movement through the air. “Believe it or not, I still don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Funny,” she growled. “Because I do.”

  She pulled back and let a spike fly. Demitri dodged its trajectory, but her wind redirected it. It sliced through the air, scoring his cheek and nicking his ear.

  He raised his hand to touch it, looking shocked that she had actually drawn ichor. Anger and resolve flashed in his eyes, and he split his staff into two swords.

  She streaked in.

  And he underestimated her.

  She pounded him with wind from different directions, catching his wrists with ropes of air to slow his blades. His eyes widened as he fought the pressure around him, barely deflecting her. She swung and struck from a foot in the air, scoring a few cuts to his arms. He stumbled, and she had a clear opening to his neck.

  She hesitated. Did she really want to kill him?