The Wildcard (Like Flies Book 2)

by Fallacious Rose

  "There is Olympos," Baldur pointed out, looking over the tiny window. Green peered down at the sharp peak thrusting up from the cloud.

  "Where they used to believe the gods lived. Didn’t anyone ever go up there and check?"

  Baldur shrugged, as best he could in the confines of the economy class seat.

  "Yes, of course, they climbed Olympos. But they entered the temples also, and found no gods there either. I think people have always understood that the gods inhabit a different realm, not this one here on earth."

  "Hmm." Green had always thought that the only place the gods inhabited was people's imagination. Still, Olympos looked forbidding enough, with its grey, swirling circlet of cloud and its snow-clad crags. In summer, she’d read that tourists traipsed up and down the sacred slopes all day - but in winter, it was the province of snow and ice and what gods remained could inhabit it in peace.

  "Not long now." She patted his knee and offered nuts. It was hard being as tall as Baldur and stuck in a plane for six hours. He leant over to kiss her lightly, his tongue circling her ear. She batted him away.

  "I’m not joining the mile high club."

  "When you do - and you will - it will not be in an aeroplane," Baldur promised. Green wriggled. It was weird to feel nervous and aroused at the same time.

  "I will be with you. There’s nothing to be afraid of."

  "You don’t know that," Green said, leaning her head against his chest. Always the same steady beat - never faster, never slower.

  "No, I do not. She had no love for my father, and perhaps she will see me as an enemy." Baldur laid his hand on her cheek. "Still, it has been a long time, and perhaps she has forgiven and forgotten. We will see."

  They hired a car in Athens and drove the two and a half hours to Delphi, the air getting crisper and the day sunnier as they went. By the time they drew up in the narrow main street, hemmed in by the drop of the valley on one side and the steep slopes of Parnassos on the other, the sky was a chill blue and the peaks a dazzle of silver above the snow line.

  Most of the hotels in the town were booked out, even in this season, with skiers heading for the snow fields near neighbouring Arachova. But they managed to find a bed and breakfast a mile out of town on the road to Amfissa. Truth to tell Green preferred the relative quiet - the blare of bouzouki and the cheap glitter of souvenir shops was a bit depressing in the circumstances. The Dutch owner, Martha, cooked them a hearty souvlaki - eggplant only, on Green’s request - and saw them to a cosy room with bright blue walls and pictures of the ruins in the summer, brilliant white and olive green against a cloudless sky.

  The shrine of Pythian Apollo at Delphi was the most ancient place of worship in Greece. Despite its dedication to Baldur’s father, he felt no kinship with it. Whatever inhabited the navel stone of Delphi was far older than any sun god. Parnassos, overlooking the navel of the earth, was a giant of a mountain, rearing its grey head up to the ice blue sky, the village crouched humbly under its lee.

  "In summer Parnassos is a sleeping giant but in winter he wakes." Baldur stared at the ceiling, thoughtful. "Many people have been killed, lost on the slopes. But we will not be challenging him, this time. She will not have strayed too far from her home."

  Well before dawn, they got up and crept quietly from the house. The road up to the village was deserted - and the gates of the shrine were firmly shut.

  "How do we get in?" Green pressed her face up against the thick wire mesh, gazing at the ruined temple with its lonely, broken pillars, and the huge slabs of foundation stone scattered around the grounds. There was something moving about this place: people had come here for centuries to find the answers to their deepest questions, and it still retained a sense of mystic power.

  "We don’t. There is nothing for us here - any power there once was, has long since left," said Baldur pragmatically, turning away.

  "But you said ..."

  "There are places here where the dragon still breathes," he said, turning towards the hillside. "We must climb a little. It is not far."

  They circled the temple grounds, making their way over rocks and scrub, and followed a marked trail up through tall firs towards frosted farmland. Green looked across to the two sheer cliffs towering above the temple - the Phaedriades, the Shining Ones. The name fitted. As the sun rose, the cliffs were outlined in gilt against a pale sky, and then gradually washed with gold. It was a majestic sight.

  "It’s incredible. No wonder your father chose this place for his temple!"

  "It is beautiful,” Baldur agreed, “There would be worse places to die. Criminals were thrown from the heights, in classical times. They were led this way to their execution - that is why this path is called the Evil Stairs."

  "Oh." She made a wry mouth- that certainly put a different gloss on things. There was a time when she would have wanted to run in the opposite direction, away from the memory of a golden-haired demon leading her to the edge, soft voices calling her onwards and outwards. Now that fear had gone: she knew she'd never jump, now. She'd have to be pushed. Like those poor guys - the criminals. What a horrible way to go.

  She walked on up the steep path, the sharp cold air of a winter dawn burning her lungs. Every once in a while, she looked down at the valley below: the village with its steep roofs and terraced streets, and the ruined ampitheatre with its snow-spattered circular benches. There, Greece's greatest playwrights had staged the stories of Medea, Oedipus, Orestes. She wished she'd been there to see the crowds sitting there in the stands, and the actors in their masks, and the gods flying in to save the day on their great machines: ‘deus ex machina’.

  They climbed higher and higher, following the ridge. The ground was icy: Baldur looped his belt around one wrist and secured the other around Green’s, in case she slipped. At times the path drew perilously close to the edge of a dizzying drop. Finally they reached a ridge, and the other side of the range spread out before them, a rugged wilderness of scree, snow and fir.

  "Are we there yet? Is this it?"

  Baldur stopped. They stood at the entrance of a cave – closed off by a large iron gate, but still offering a tempting refuge from the wind

  "No, this is the Castalian Cave. But the cave systems up here go for a hundred miles or more," Baldur said, looking beyond, and Green realised with a sinking feeling that there could be much, much further to go. If she’d known this was going to be such a long hike, she’d have brought chocolate, she thought grumpily, as she trudged after him through the never-ending icy slush. At last they rounded a jagged spear of rock, the wind cutting at their faces, and veered off the path into trackless white.

  "Are you sure about this? I thought you said people get killed up here."

  "I am sure."

  Baldur's footsteps sank inches at every step: Green felt like Good King Wenceslas' hapless page, following in his tread. They traversed a white-shrouded slope, then headed downwards, the sky lightening around them to a deep cobalt blue.

  They trudged across the unmarked snow field for another thirty minutes, and fetched up at the foot of a single tooth-like pinnacle, pointing like a sharpened fingernail at the sky. Green leaned against it, tired out.

  "How much further?"

  In answer, Baldur crouched down. At the base of the pinnacle, a small hole, not much bigger than would fit a large dog, gaped cold, wet and clogged with icicles. Green peered in, scuffing at the entrance with sodden gloves.

  "Don’t tell me we’re going in there." She sniffed. Apart from being dark, cold and wet, something inside smelled...rotten. Probably some poor sheep who’d gone in there for shelter and died.

  For answer, Baldur swung his legs in and pushed off as if on a slide at a playground, disappearing with horrible suddenness into the bowels of the mountain. She heard an abrupt crunch, then a voice, suspiciously cheerful.

  "It is not far."

  "Is it safe?" There was a good reason she didn’t like caves - small spaces underground weren’t meant for people. Especially t
his smelly deathtrap of a cave.

  "Nothing is safe. But I do not think we will die today."

  Encouraged by this not very reassuring statement, Green clenched her teeth, and slid down to join him, feeling her jeans soak up the icy mud. Lovely! As she reached the bottom of the drop, an unnerving three metres, Baldur steadied her on her feet.

  There was still light filtering down from above - enough to see that they were in a tiny, claustrophobic space, with another, even more uninviting chasm opening off to the side.

  "I really hate this," she said feelingly.

  "Take my hand." Reluctantly, Green put her hand into Baldur’s. Then, without hesitation, he stepped through the second opening, and dropped like a stone. More by instinct than intention, she wrenched her hand out of his, teetering on the lip. There was no way she was going down there. It was lunacy - diving feet first into some underground cavern, who knows how deep, without even chucking a stone down first! And the stink!

  "Baldur?"

  There was no answer. What should she do now? They'd brought no ropes or climbing equipment - idiots. She leaned in and called again. There was no reply. She hesitated on the lip of the hole, breathing hard. He wouldn't have gone in there, would he, if it wasn't ok. He wouldn't put her at risk. But even if it wasn't ok - she had to get down there and see, somehow. She felt out with her foot, and realised that it wasn't a straight drop, but rather another slide, a lot steeper than the first. She took a deep breath, sat down on the edge, and pushed off.

  She found herself rushing on her rear end helplessly down a long, dark and horribly wet tunnel.

  Baldur’s body blocked her fall. At least, she assumed it was Baldur. She couldn’t see a thing. She groped her way upright. The ground underneath felt like rubble, but at least it was solid and flat. And dry.

  "What the fuck is this place?"

  "Hush." Baldur’s voice came out of the blackness, and she felt his arm wind around her waist. "The serpent is here."

  Green stiffened.

  "Serpent? What serpent?" she whispered, pressing up against him. "You didn’t say anything about a serpent?"

  "The Pythia takes many forms."

  Green listened. There was a faint hissing sound -like a large - a very large - animal breathing. In, then out. In, then out. She breathed in, and tried not to cough. The smell was overwhelming.

  "Where is she?"

  A movement in the pitch-black, scales sliding over rock. One green-gold eye, lidless. She gasped.

  A querulous voice from the darkness.

  "Apollo’s son. You are not welcome here."

  "I am not responsible for my father’s sins. The shrine is yours, ancient Pythia, whenever you decide to take it back."

  A louder hiss in the darkness, peeved. Green began to sweat - the air here was noticeably warm, almost glutinous.

  "I do not want it - now. Humans have over-run it, numerous as cockroaches. Why are you here?"

  "I would ask you a question, ancient and honoured one."

  "Today is not the day," said the voice, irritably. "The last time I answered a question from a human was precisely two thousand and ten years ago, and little use did they make of it. The stupidity of humans never ceases to amaze me."

  "I," Baldur pointed out, "am not human."

  "You smell human," said the Pythia. Green couldn’t see anything, but she felt the puff of hot air against the back of her legs, and heard the long, snuffling sigh. It felt like the Pythia - whoever she might be – was creeping up on them. She shrank even further into Baldur. "In any case, immortals have no more wit in them than mortals, but only more power - like a strong man with a weak brain."

  The Pythia laughed at her own joke, a reptilian affair of snorts and gurgles.

  "It is because we are foolish," said Baldur, with open flattery, "that we seek your wisdom."

  "We are closed," the Pythia hissed. "For the foreseeable future."

  "It’s the future we’ve come to ask about," Green squeaked, speaking up for the first time. After all, it was kind of her idea to come here. "Mainly because we don’t have one."

  The Pythia laughed deep in her throat.

  "And that's my problem?"

  "We seek your advice about a prophecy," Baldur said politely. "And who better to ask than an oracle?"

  "One of mine?" the Pythia enquired dryly. "You should know I never give a straight answer to a straight question. Why should I...make ‘em work for it, that was always my philosophy."

  Diplomatically, Baldur refrained from comment. "When the mark of the beast is written upon the back of a young girl, beware of the Game’s End. She is the wild card." He recited the words into the blackness. The serpent shifted, dragging its scales over the rock.

  "You and your games," she said disgustedly. "I was here before the Game, and I will be here after the Game ends. Your prophecy is rubbish - scarcely worth your journey and my time."

  "Then we are sorry to have disturbed you."

  The Pythia laughed.

  "Those who disturb me these days seldom live to disturb me again. But you should have thought of that before you walked - no, fell, I think it was - into my domain."

  Chapter 25

  Baldur reached into his pocket. In a moment, there was light. The Pythia hissed and covered her face.

  "Turn that thing off - it's blinding me!"

  Obligingly, he cupped a hand around the bulb of the torch, so that the effect was as of a shaded lamp. Green blinked. The cavern they stood in was a lot bigger than she’d imagined - extending back like a cathedral into the hillside. Stalagtites reached from the rock ceiling like long, ghostly fingers. But it wasn’t the stalagtites that took her eye.

  Sitting cross-legged in the centre of the cave was an old woman, naked. In the centre of her withered chest hung a chain, and on the chain, a jewel - green and gold and alive with its own light. She looked back at them, outraged. Her face was intelligent and predatory.

  "You’re not a snake." Green said, unnecessarily.

  The old woman hissed again. "I can take any shape I wish. I am the Pythia, here long before the upstart Apollo, and here long after his son, and his son’s sons, have perished."

  She rubbed at her whiskered chin, glaring at Baldur, then picked at a yellow toe nail.

  Baldur crouched down before her on the cave floor.

  "And when will that be, ancient one?"

  "When the Game ends, of course - could your foolish prophecy have been more plain?" Her jaundiced eyes narrowed with disdain. "How your kind have survived this far, I do not know. With your ridiculous wars, and your ambition, and your incredible stupidity..."

  "But you said..." Green started to object. That the prophecy was rubbish, she was going to say, but Baldur glanced at her quickly, and she shut her mouth. Instead, she looked down at the Pythia’s tiny, ancient skull, dead white skin showing beneath the sparse strands of hair.

  "Can you tell me, honoured Pythia - why should we - who are immortal - beware the Game’s end. It is only a Game - to be finished, and begun again."

  Green looked up at him. The voice was not Baldur’s, but an impassive immortal’s, callous and cool. The Pythia smiled, and her long pale tongue flickered out between cracked lips.

  "Ah, but whose Game?"

  "Who else is there?" he said carelessly. "You and your kind existed before mine, I grant you that - but Zeus-Ra defeated you and drove you out. You are the last of the old ones." Baldur got to his feet and turned to Green. "We should go. The Pythia has nothing to tell us, after all. She is only an ancient relic from a time long past."

  The old woman uncoiled, her red-rimmed eyes blazing with venom. Green blinked. Not many women that age could get up that easily from the ground - and not many could sit naked and cross-legged on bare rock, either.

  "You think your kind rule the universe? Zeus-Ra with his one eye and his thunderbolts? The Nine, as you call them - with their whoring and plotting and marble halls?"

  Baldur shrugged. "Then who?
>
  "There is one much older than you, arrogant boy - or I. Did we spring uncreated from the loins of the universe like a mutant frog? I think not. "

  The Pythia scuttled across the cave on leather-soled feet, muttering to herself angrily. She reached for a pile of black rags, and pulled a tattered dress over her head. The skin hung in folds from her bony arms, and her neck was wrinkled and twisted. But Green sensed she was a lot stronger than she looked. Dressed, she peered back at the two intruders with amused spite.

  "Ignorant upstarts, disturbing a poor old woman with your questions. As if I have nothing better to do than sit chattering with you all day!" The Pythia began to shuffle across the cave again, towards a narrow stair, winding upwards.

  "Wait," said Green, putting out a hand to grasp the ragged black sleeve. The Pythia shot her such a fierce look that she quickly withdrew it - but she kept speaking regardless. "I’m the girl with the mark on her back, I'm the wildcard, and when the Game ends, everybody I love is going to die. So if there’s someone who can tell me how to stop this thing, I want to know who they are. And where to find them."

  "You don’t find them, my girl," said the Pythia, cackling gently. "They find you."

  Green stamped her foot. "You know why nobody takes any notice of oracles? Because by the time you’ve worked out what they meant, everything’s over - everyone’s dead. What use is advice that only works in hindsight?"

  She stepped back, startled by her own vehemence. If the Pythia decided to smite her now - or eat her, more likely - she only had herself to blame.

  The Pythia regarded her with a tinge of interest.

  "Is that so? You think I care if you all die? I don’t give a shit - as your kind like to say." She paused, her tongue flicking over the thin, dry lips. "And yet...I like your spirit. I’ll tell you this, then, and listen well, I don’t like to repeat myself. The flood that is coming, it will drown kings and paupers alike. You’ll all die - you and your kind, yes, and you," she directed a venomous glance at Baldur, "who call yourselves immortals - yes, you’ll perish too. Oh yes, and me, I’ll go. Not that I mind, I’ve had enough of this wretched world. So don’t talk to me of your gods and your Asgard, it’ll all be gone soon, Game or no Game. Ha! And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to church."