Page 21 of The Games Gods Play
My spine goes as straight as if Zeus jammed an electric rod right down it, and I refuse to look at Hades. Or answer, for that matter. He doesn’t mean it. I know he doesn’t. He also doesn’t know the kinds of unfortunate responses I’ve been having to him. That kind of nonsense is just to rile Zeus up, for whatever reason, and doesn’t deserve an answer.
I can feel Hades watching me, probably with that taunting expression that I’m starting to resent.
“No?” he asks. “More’s the pity.”
Then he settles back in his seat, apparently happy to enjoy whatever new brand of torture is coming next.
“Zeles,” Zeus calls out, “let us have the rules for the Crucible.”
11
There’s Always A Twist
The Crucible.
Now it really sinks in. I’ve been selected to win a competition that not everyone returns from—and I have no one left behind to even bestow blessings upon if I don’t make it back. My heart starts to race, but I try to calm it by imagining the contest will be games, like chess or Twister. I can play chess. Maybe a footrace?
I lean toward Hades and whisper, “Like the Olympics?”
There is a world of difference between hurdles and something like pole-vaulting or even cage fighting. I’m trying not to let myself even consider anything close to monsters.
Hades points at the Daemones circling above us.
Zeles spreads his black wings wide, and with a downbeat, the Daemon twists in the air to land facing us. The man is clearly not a smiler. His warm brown skin is on full display as he isn’t wearing a shirt, showing off an impressive, chiseled torso. Maybe it’s hard to fashion shirts around the wings?
Horribly conscious of Hades at my side and the others all around, I force myself to focus as the other three Daemones line up behind Zeles.
“Welcome, champions,” Zeles says. Still no smile. “Congratulations. You have the honor of being selected to compete in the Crucible, representing the god or goddess who chose you.”
A competition that not all the mortals return from isn’t mentioned, as though that fact is meaningless to the gods. This is going to be way worse than I imagined.
“Not only do you represent your patron god or goddess, but you compete in their stead. This is how we choose our next ruler. This is how we ensure the Anaxian Wars never happen again.” By using mortals as chess pieces the gods get to move around on a board only they can see. Which makes me what?
A pawn.
I close my eyes. That’s exactly what I am. A pawn in the gods’ petty games, and a throne is at stake.
Zeles raises his arms like he’s blessing us. “May your time in the splendor of Olympus encourage you to play your hardest for your gods and goddesses and, in the end, give you a piece of beauty to carry with you into the Overworld, or into the Underworld, should you falter.”
Ummm… Was that supposed to be inspiring and uplifting? I glance around at the other champions in my eyeline, who are all staring at Zeles with blank expressions. Or maybe they’re so rattled they’re in shock, too? He pretty much confirmed death is a strong possibility in this. Right?
“Before we establish the Labors and the rules,” the Daemon continues, “let’s introduce everyone now that we are all gathered together.”
He said Labors.
As in Heraclean? Not good.
I’d rather hear more about the games-and-rules stuff, but at least now I’ll get names and know who goes with which god or goddess. More information is never useless.
One by one, the thirteen deities introduce their champions by name and home origin and a tiny bit of background. I catalog everything I can about each one. We are truly an assorted group of people from all over the world, with varying genders, ages, statuses, skills, and walks of life. And with not a single trait that we all seem to have in common among us. Not obvious ones I can see, at least.
Zeles moves closer to us, his great wings brushing the floor with a whisper of sound. “There is a prize for the mortal who helps win their patron the crown,” he announces.
One of the champions seated behind me murmurs with interest. Others shift in their chairs. The Daemon waves his hand, and a group of people descend the stairs, appearing from around the bend that follows the mountain’s curve. They assemble at the foot between curling balustrades.
“Let me introduce you to Mathias Aridam and his family.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, shock popping the words out of my mouth.
