The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)

‘What’s it saying?’ Grover asked between gasps.

Among its many irritating qualities, the arrow spoke solely in my mind, so not only did I look like a crazy person when I conversed with it but I had to constantly report its ramblings to my friends.

‘It’s still searching Google,’ I told Grover. ‘Perhaps, O Arrow, you could do a Boolean search, “strix plus defeat”.’

I USE NOT SUCH CHEATS! the arrow thundered. Then it was silent long enough to type strix + defeat.

THE BIRDS MAY BE REPELLED WITH PIG ENTRAILS, it reported. HAST THOU ANY?

‘Grover,’ I called over my shoulder, ‘would you happen to have any pig entrails?’

‘What?’ He turned, which was not an effective way of facing me, since I was duct-taped to his back. He almost scraped my nose off on the brick wall. ‘Why would I carry pig entrails? I’m a vegetarian!’

Meg clambered up the ramp to join us.

‘The birds are almost through,’ she reported. ‘I tried different kinds of plants. I tried to summon Peaches …’ Her voice broke with despair.

Since entering the Labyrinth, she had been unable to summon her peach-spirit minion, who was handy in a fight but rather picky about when and where he showed up. I supposed that, much like tomato plants, Peaches didn’t do well underground.

‘Arrow of Dodona, what else?’ I shouted at its point. ‘There has to be something besides pig intestines that will keep strixes at bay!’

WAIT, the arrow said. HARK! IT APPEARETH THAT ARBUTUS SHALL SERVE.

‘Our-butt-us shall what?’ I demanded.

Too late.

Below us, with a peal of bloodthirsty shrieks, the strixes broke through the tomato barricade and swarmed into the room.





3


Strixes do sucketh

Yea, verily I tell you

Much sucking is theirs





‘Here they come!’ Meg yelled.

Honestly, whenever I wanted her to talk about something important, she shut up. But, when we were facing an obvious danger, she wasted her breath yelling, Here they come.

Grover increased his pace, showing heroic strength as he bounded up the ramp, hauling my flabby duct-taped carcass behind him.

Facing backwards, I had a perfect view of the strixes as they swirled out of the shadows, their yellow eyes flashing like coins in a murky fountain. A dozen birds? More? Given how much trouble we’d had with a single strix, I didn’t like our chances against an entire flock, especially since we were now lined up like juicy targets on a narrow, slippery ledge. I doubted Meg could help all the birds commit suicide by whacking them face-first into the wall.

‘Arbutus!’ I yelled. ‘The arrow said something about arbutus repelling strixes.’

‘That’s a plant.’ Grover gasped for air. ‘I think I met an arbutus once.’

‘Arrow,’ I said, ‘what is an arbutus?’

I KNOW NOT! BECAUSE I WAS BORN IN A GROVE DOTH NOT MAKETH ME A GARDENER!

Disgusted, I shoved the arrow back into my quiver.

‘Apollo, cover me.’ Meg thrust one of her swords into my hand, then rifled through her gardening belt, glancing nervously at the strixes as they ascended.

How Meg expected me to cover her, I wasn’t sure. I was garbage at swordplay, even when I wasn’t duct-taped to a satyr’s back and facing targets that would curse anyone who killed them.

‘Grover!’ Meg yelled. ‘Can we figure out what type of plant an arbutus is?’

She ripped open a random packet and tossed seeds into the void. They burst like heated popcorn kernels and formed grenade-size yams with leafy green stems. They fell among the flock of strixes, hitting a few and causing startled squawking, but the birds kept coming.

‘Those are tubers,’ Grover wheezed. ‘I think an arbutus is a fruit plant.’

Meg ripped open a second seed packet. She showered the strixes with an explosion of bushes dotted with green fruits. The birds simply veered around them.

‘Grapes?’ Grover asked.

‘Gooseberries,’ said Meg.

‘Are you sure?’ Grover asked. ‘The shape of the leaves –’

‘Grover!’ I snapped. ‘Let’s restrict ourselves to military botany. What’s a –? DUCK!’

Now, gentle reader, you be the judge. Was I asking the question What’s a duck? Of course I wasn’t. Despite Meg’s later complaints, I was trying to warn her that the nearest strix was charging straight at her face.

She didn’t understand my warning, which was not my fault.

I swung my borrowed scimitar, attempting to protect my young friend. Only my terrible aim and Meg’s quick reflexes prevented me from decapitating her.

‘Stop that!’ she yelled, swatting the strix aside with her other blade.

‘You said cover me!’ I protested.

‘I didn’t mean –’ She cried out in pain, stumbling as a bloody cut opened along her right thigh.

Then we were engulfed in an angry storm of talons, beaks and black wings. Meg swung her scimitar wildly. A strix launched itself at my face, its claws about to rip my eyes out, when Grover did the unexpected: he screamed.

Why is that surprising? you may be asking. When you’re swarmed by entrail-devouring birds, it is a perfect time to scream.

True. But the sound that came from the satyr’s mouth was no ordinary cry.

It reverberated through the chamber like the shock wave of a bomb, scattering the birds, shaking the stones and filling me with cold, unreasoning fear.

Had I not been duct-taped to the satyr’s back, I would have fled. I would have jumped off the ledge just to get away from that sound. As it was, I dropped Meg’s sword and clamped my hands over my ears. Meg, lying prone on the ramp, bleeding and no doubt already partially paralysed by the strix’s poison, curled into a ball and buried her head in her arms.

The strixes fled back down into the darkness.

My heart pounded. Adrenalin surged through me. I needed several deep breaths before I could speak.

‘Grover,’ I said, ‘did you just summon Panic?’

I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel him shaking. He lay down on the ramp, rolling to one side so I faced the wall.

‘I didn’t mean to.’ Grover’s voice was hoarse. ‘Haven’t done that in years.’

‘P-panic?’ Meg asked.

‘The cry of the lost god Pan,’ I said. Even saying his name filled me with sadness. Ah, what good times the nature god and I had had in ancient days, dancing and cavorting in the wilderness! Pan had been a first-class cavorter. Then humans destroyed most of the wilderness, and Pan faded into nothing. You humans. You’re why we gods can’t have nice things.

‘I’ve never heard anyone but Pan use that power,’ I said. ‘How?’

Grover made a sound that was half sob, half sigh. ‘Long story.’

Meg grunted. ‘Got rid of the birds, anyway.’ I heard her ripping fabric, probably making a bandage for her leg.

‘Are you paralysed?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ she muttered. ‘Waist down.’

Grover shifted in our duct-tape harness. ‘I’m still okay, but exhausted. The birds will be back, and there’s no way I can carry you up the ramp now.’

I did not doubt him. The shout of Pan would scare away almost anything, but it was a taxing bit of magic. Every time Pan used it, he would take a three-day nap afterwards.

Below us, the strixes’ cries echoed through the Labyrinth. Their screeching already sounded like it was turning from fear – Fly away! – to confusion: Why are we flying away?

I tried to wriggle my feet. To my surprise, I could now feel my toes inside my socks.

‘Can someone cut me loose?’ I asked. ‘I think the poison is losing strength.’

From her horizontal position, Meg used a scimitar to saw me out of the duct tape. The three of us lined up with our backs literally to the wall – three sweaty, sad, pathetic pieces of strix bait waiting to die. Below us, the squawking of the doom birds got louder. Soon they’d be back, angrier than ever. About fifty feet above us, just visible now in the dim glint of Meg’s swords, our ramp dead-ended at a domed brick ceiling.

‘So much for an exit,’ Grover said. ‘I thought for sure … This shaft looks so much like …’ He shook his head, as if he couldn’t bear to tell us what he’d hoped.