Wrath "Rise of the Fallen"

To mapmakers, the Isle of the Three was a mere speck in the Aegean, hardly worth recording. To sailors, it was a port instinctively avoided. To most others, a legend, a late-night story full of desolation and terror. Shrouded in a stinking fog and ringed by humps of dead coral and jagged rocks like the gaping jaws of some gigantic sea beast, the Isle of the Three squatted amid gnashing riptides and ever-shifting currents.

Ares stood at the leading edge of his uncle’s conjured wave, leaning into the wind, which buffeted him with the odor of dead fish. On his back he wore his battered shield, now cleansed of demon’s blood, and a new spear (he’d broken off his other in a demon’s skull), a retractable, double-headed toy from the genius Hephaestus. At his side, his great sword, also cleaned and oiled and ready to once again to take life. The wave sat low on the sea’s surface like a small, flat skiff of striking aquamarine, and it cut through the turbulent grey-blue waters and navigated the rocks and tangled clumps of kelp with ease. Ares could feel Poseidon looming behind him and experienced a cool swirl of anticipation in his gut. This was where he belonged. And if Hermes was actually in trouble—and, frankly, Ares never trusted those sly-tongued witches—the God of War could not only show his uncle his skills, but also repay a long overdue debt.

Pale sunlight pushed through the fading fog, and the slow crash of breaking surf grew louder. The isle’s single peak came into view, poking like a stubby thumb just above a thick forest. The wave deposited Ares and Poseidon on a thin strip of rocky beach littered with grey driftwood and snarls of brown kelp cloudy with sandflies. The forest crowded right up to the coarse sand with many of the trees on the leading edge tilting toward the water as if being pushed by those behind them.

Other than the rhythmic, distant-thunder roll of surf, the beach was silent. A loaded quiet that made Ares uneasy. Poseidon surveyed the area, hands draped casually over his trident slung across the back his neck. He seemed to be mulling something over.

“Thoughts, Uncle?”

Poseidon started up the beach toward what looked like a game trail. “I’m thinking I’m not liking the feel of this at all. I’m thinking we traded one bad situation for a worse one. I’m thinking you’d best be ready to show me all of your vaunted fighting prowess. That’s what I’m thinking. Now let’s go find that pain in the arse half-brother of yours.”

They entered the forest, quickly leaving sunlight and surf behind. The trail wound through the dense thicket of trees and sand quickly gave way to mossy soil. Thin blades of dusty sunlight dropped down from the thick foliage overhead. The silence pressed in on them, made Ares antsy. He kept a hand on the ram’s head hilt of his sword, his eyes on the trees, which stood by like a grim army setting siege. The creatures they’d battled at Olympus—easy enough to dispatch, but so numerous!—had been like nothing he’d ever encountered before, and Zeus’ cryptic words did nothing to quell Ares’ rising unease.

They came to a sudden meadow, lit by wan sunlight and carpeted in dense low grass sprinkled with tiny splashes of red and blue flowers. A stream cut across the clearing, burbling around smooth black stones and wearing chips of silvery light like scales. Poseidon stepped to the stream’s edge, then turned to Ares. “There used to be a clan of satyrs living here in the forest. I will find them.”

“You think those bawdy, goat-legged hedonists will help us?”

“Oh, I suspect so,” Poseidon said. “They are staunch supporters of Hermes. You continue along this trail—do not dally, do not deviate—and I’ll meet you at the Temple of the Three. Try not to get lost, nephew.” He slipped into the stream and became as one with the clear water, somehow vanishing in the shallows and leaving Ares alone in the small meadow.

Not wanting to disappoint his uncle, the god of war leapt the stream and set off on the trail on the other side of the meadow. The trees closed ranks immediately, bringing with them a heavy quietude that sucked up what little light trickled through the canopies until Ares felt as if he was immersed in a muddy tea. The murkiness was peppered with low, eerie sounds, the merest whispers, the softest murmurs—muffled laughter, a cry?—yet nothing moved. Reflexively, he grasped the hilt of his sword and, despite trying to stay focused, found himself dwelling on the reason he felt obligated to be on the Isle of Three beyond just being commanded by Zeus to do so.

The Aloadae giants, Otus and Ephialtes, had invaded Olympus to kidnap Artemis and Hera for their own. A young brash Ares had intervened without bothering to consult the more experienced Olympians and managed to get captured by the powerful brothers Aloadae. They imprisoned Ares in a massive bronze vault for an entire lunar year. The solitary captivity was bad enough, but the vault was enchanted, and Ares spent thirteen months tormented by nightmarish hallucinations. Of Adonis ravaging a willing Aphrodite, of Sisyphos escaping the Underworld to exact a torturous revenge, of Hallirhothios raping his daughter Alkippe over and over, of his humiliation at the hands of the lesser Hercules. Depraved and frightful and unrelenting. And all so very, very real. Hour after hour, day in and day out. Over and over and over. Until finally as Ares’ sanity had about flickered out, the vault cracked open, and there stood Hermes, hand outstretched to lead the God of War back to freedom and reason. It had been a long journey. The Herald of the Gods had never said a word about it, never asked for anything in return.

Now, in the unnaturally dim forest, Ares could hear the echoes of those old torments. Hercules’ mocking laugh. Aphrodite’s moans, Alkippe’s piteous cries. And everywhere he looked, stillness, but no—was that movement?

Ares drew his sword with a shimmering tang! as the wall of trees split wide with a thunderous burst to reveal the Aloadae giants rushing at him with gleeful malice. The God of War gasped; a petrifying panic iced through him. Not possible—the brothers were dead. Killed at the hands of Artemis’ artful trickery long ago. Panic drowned under a boiling anger that chilled into a cool, cool fury. Ares blinked once and the giants vanished. Replaced by something else.

A dark beast as broad and tall as a war elephant stood among the shattered tree trunks with leaves showering down on it. Oily strings of hair fell from its lumpy head around tarry eyes gleaming with a smoldering red light. Its nose hooked like a raptor’s beak, curving down in front of a wide grin wrapped by bloated lips that pressed against fang stabbing out of its mouth. Its skin may have been black or a midnight blue, Ares couldn’t tell in the dim light, but he could see lines of syrupy fluid running from angry red ulcers pocking its face and neck. It wore plain armor like thick leather. “Shall we dance, abomination?” it said and hurdled at Ares with stunning speed to strike his sword arm with a heavy cudgel of dark knotty wood. Ares went down, his right arm numb, his sword lost.

He rolled away from the crashing cudgel, unslung his shield with his off hand, and whipped it the demon’s thick leg with such force that the leg snapped like a twig, splintered bones rupturing the dark skin. The beast collapsed to a knee in front of Ares with a wail. The God of War jumped up and pulled Hephaestus’ retractable spear and snapped it open to its full length as he leapt into the air. With a lusty cry he drove the spearhead through the demon’s neck where it dove deeply into the ground. Fixed in place, the beast gargled and squirmed, feebly trying to reach the spear sticking out of the nape of his neck. Ares retrieved his sword and lopped off the demon’s head with a vicious two-handed swing that stabbed a dagger of hot pain through his right arm. His hand quivered uncontrollably and he dropped his sword—it seemed likely that the forearm was broken. But he couldn’t dwell on that because the forest suddenly erupted all around him, sending dozens of demons pouring from around the trees in a howling frenzy.

Grabbing his sword with his left hand and managing to get his damaged right forearm through the stiff leather straps of his shield, Ares went to work against the demons swarming toward him with spears and long dirks. Yes, his sword work was not as good in his left hand, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t trained his off hand for hours and hours to prepare for such a situation. Ares fought with grim, grinding single-mindedness because he knew that if he faltered just once, he would die. So he used the agonizing pain in his right arm that came with every shield strike to keep him focused.

Wave after black and bellowing wave smashed themselves against Ares’ sword and shield and he cut them down with a precise fury hidden beneath a stony expression of utter concentration. But he was tiring and taking hits to his arms and legs and beginning to yield ground. Backpedaling, he almost tripped over the headless demon still pinned to the ground in a huddle. Berserker shrieks rose in pitch all around him as the demons smelled the end and formed a dark wall of malice before him. With cold certainty, Ares knew he was done. Drawing on the last of his strength, he settled into a fighting stance himself as another wave rushed him.

The air sizzled all around Ares and the line of charging demons dropped, all of them suddenly bristling with long, colorful arrows from their faces and throats. Before the next assault, more arrows sprouted and more demons fell. And again and again, so fast that Ares had barely managed to blink before the remaining demons broke ranks and faded back into the dark trees.

Ares whipped his head around and scanned the forest behind him. Poseidon stepped out from between two vine-wrapped trees. “You had one thing to do,” he growled. “One simple thing.”

Ares gaped at his uncle, at the mass of satyr archers stepping into the clearing, then back at his uncle. “You found the satyrs, I see.”

“What’s left of them,” Poseidon said, surveying the scene. “And lucky for you apparently.” He continued to scrutinize with exaggerated concentration. “Huh… looks like you might have gotten one or two yourself.” There might’ve been a glint of mirth in his green eyes.

Ares bit back on his frustration, stomped over to the headless demon. “Hilarious as usual, Uncle.” With his uninjured hand, he yanked on the spear, which slid out with a sudden squelch and twirls of gore-sweating meat that flew in every direction. One chunk landed at the feet of a satyr kitted out in gleaming mail and a leather belt picketed by polished daggers. Brown horns peeked just above his loose curly brown hair. He gave the demon meat scant attention. “Poseidon, my men are mopping up this mess here and we’re close to securing the rest of the isle.”

“Good, General Lycos. Good. As soon as possible, get your companies to Olympus and muster the mainland satyr clans. Leave the witches’ temple to us. Ares.”

Ares nodded. He sheathed his sword across his body with his left hand and winced as he slung his shield around to his back.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Poseidon asked. “Certainly those little scratches aren’t making you all a-quiver.”

“Nothing,” Ares said, thinking the grinding in his sword arm meant it was likely broken.

“Great,” Poseidon grumbled. “Am I gonna have to carry your broken arse through this?”

“I can have a healer look at it,” General Lycos said.

Ares stared deadpan at the general before setting off through the trees.

Poseidon cast a squinty look at his nephew’s shield-covered back, then rolled his eyes at the general who wore the smallest smile that twinkled his light brown eyes. “That’ll be all,” the Lord of the Seas said. “See you at Olympus. Thank you.” Poseidon wheeled around and followed after Ares as the general barked orders at his men.