Apple of Discord: Chapter 6

You step through the bristling energy of the portal with the guys at your side, and you step out into what looks like a vacant lot with rundown machinery and cranes.

Bits of rusting steel I-beams and pipe litter the scattered concrete foundation, cracking under the sun’s heat. You can taste the tang of metal and dust in the air.

Weeds and chinaberry trees have grown tall and strong between the old concrete foundation slabs. On one side of the property is an old decaying house. A section of its mouldering roof has collapsed in on the two-story frame, making it look like a toothless monster too old to go on.

On the far end of the property is the old Tipps Ironworks factory—a crumbling old fortress of a building, held up by old steel and brick and patched up with cinderblock. Nearly every easily reachable surface of the place has been sprayed over with layer upon layer of graffiti.

Most of the high multi-paned windows are broken, and several exterior sheds lean and sag against the outer walls for support. It’s an odd combination of derelict neglect and post industrial brutalism.

You half expect to see a gang of cyclops roasting a former camper over a cooking fire, but if they were ever here, it was a long time ago.

Between the old house and the factory is a raised concrete block with two massive iron doors. Based on the layout of the place it looks like the doors covered the old foundry furnaces. 

You squint through the sunlight and spot a rotating patrol of Plague Spirits, trailing a haze of purplish mist. You count over 30 of them and silently wonder, will waves of nausea caused by the markers strengthen them?

“Good question. Not sure,” Ryan replies.

“Inside voice again?” You sigh.

“Yeah, sorry. Here, you’d better trade out gum. The markers will be here in five minutes,” Ryan offers you a stick of, Don’t Blow Chunks gum. “Unlike some people, I keep track of my gum”.

“It was an accident!” Shai replies, defensively.

“Was there a plan or something?” You hold the gaze of both the guys. “Or are we just gonna stand around and fight nausea? I mean, Cat and Master Da’Mon are still inside that factory building somewhere, right?” 

As if on cue, a column of warriors in patchwork leather and armor march out to face the abandoned wasteland of scrap steel and vegetation that separates you and the Tips Ironworks factory. You count over fifty well-armed mercenaries.

“Germani and Plague Spirits. Fun,” Shai says. “We’ve had to fight lots of both over the last year. If there was any lingering doubt that this was a Nero hidey-hole, those doubts are gone.”

“With everyone joining the fun out here, maybe there aren’t as many guards inside the building?” Ryan offers.

“But, what’s the plan?” you ask with greater urgency.

“Try not to die?” the guys say in unison. “Jinx!”

You glare at them. “This is my hostile and antagonizing glare. Fear me.”

“Oh, you meant an actual and specific plan?” Shai looks genuinely taken aback.

You raise your eyebrows to emphasize your seriousness.

“We’re gonna throw a party!” Shai smiles.

“Whaaat?” you say.

“It’s more of a swap meet with a lot of celebrating,” Ryan explains. “Strategically, it’s called a disruptor. Sort of a battle-marketing term.”

Shai puffs out his cheeks. “Yeah, this is gonna be really great, or it’s going to go horribly wrong.”

“I have so many questions,” you say, shaking your head.

The ground begins to rumble beneath you. It starts as a distant and dull thudding and gets louder and more pronounced, until finally stopping.

It’s then that two large, rusty metal doors set into a cracked concrete foundation groan open. The rusty metal hinges shatter, releasing the doors from their moorings.

Two giant men appear from the ground beneath each of the doors, tossing them aside as if they were minor annoyances. The doors tumble and clatter to the ground sending up plumes and swirls of dust. You can taste the bitter tang of old metal in the air and feel the grit of it in your mouth.

One of the giants looks to be about 12 feet tall, has long green hair, and is sporting a purple tee shirt that reads, Social Media Savvy. The other, with purple hair braided together with silver and gold coins, is wearing black pants that appear to be hiding the snakes he has for legs. Both of them are cyclopes. The second is wearing a green tee shirt that reads, Got party? 

The Germani, bristling with weapons, stand at attention. They look uneasy and unsure of what to do.

Mood.

You feel the same way, drawing your weapon as the two giants emerge from the ground. Outnumbered and out-gianted, your demigod battle reflexes kick in.

You feel strength flow into you. Your senses sharpen, and you feel as though fate is on your side, opening a doorway to greatness. This is what you were born to do.

“Inside voice!” Shai calls out. “Actually, I wish I had your inside voice while brushing my teeth in the morning. That’d be way more fun.”

“Uh, yeah,” you say before casting your gaze across the battlefield, spotting a possibility. Springing into action, you veer off to the right, getting behind the two giants, leaping onto a rusty leg of an old crane.

Scrambling up, you wonder if you can climb high enough before the two giants notice you. So far so good. You get 20 feet up and prepare to launch yourself down onto the head of the nearest giant.

One.
Two.
Three...

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ryan calls out. “They’re with us.”

You wish you’d heard that earlier. Even a second earlier would have helped, but now you fall awkwardly off the crane. Great.

One of the giants looks up and flinches as you fall toward the face of the other. Right as you anticipate impact, everything stops for a moment. Or, at least you do. What is going on, you wonder.

“Adele, you made it to the swapmeet!” Shai calls out.

“Uh, hello’s later. I’m working,” Adele rasps. “This kind of magic sucks the energy out of me.”

Adele stands in the shade of a Chinaberry tree, weaving her fingers together in a complex series of patterns. 

The shadows around Adele roil and stretch, spanning the distance between her and you. The shadows form a sort of net beneath you, holding you up.

However under the bright light of the sun, they appear to be disintegrating as soon as they form. The forming, disintegration, and reforming shadows sound like a slab of meat sizzling on a hot pan.

The constant strain of renewing the shadows starts to show on Adele’s face. She is drenched in sweat and beginning to tremble under the effort, but she manages to lower you safely to the ground next to the boys.

“I told you these demigod brats would be more trouble than this deal is worth. Look at them! Weak,” says one of the giants, pointing at both you and Adele.

Adele’s shoulders straighten and even though she’s breathing heavily, her voice is suddenly authoritative and self-assured. “I have other magic at my disposal.”

“You are a brave woman, threatening us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of threatening you boys. I’m just really bored of this conversation—AND we’ve only just started,” Adele replies, cooly.

One of the giant's faces goes stormy. “How dare …”

“Good to see you again.” Adele half smiles at you. “Glad you’re not dead.” Adele turns to face Ryan and Shai. “This plan of yours? Whew … When I realized that you are both insane and super irritating …”

“How dare you …” bellows the giant, once more.

“Irritating! Especially you!” Adele points at Shai but keeps her gaze on the complaining giant.

The Germani and Plague spirits continue to shift, as if they were unsure of what side the giants are on.

“Can you do it? We’ve got just under two minutes,” Ryan asks cryptically, a smile teasing his lips.

“Duh. One giant swap meet coming up.” Adele sighs, rolling up her sleeves. On the skin of her forearms is a dark tracery of images, a sinuous metallic black series of tattoos.

“I spent the last hour drawing these on my flesh. It was last minute, but the symbols are solid. Give a girl a little more head’s up next time?”

Adele crosses her arms and touches the matching symbols on her forearms. This time shadow and mist swirl around Adele’s arms, consuming the metallic black ink on her flesh as the vapor builds in density and volume. She throws her arms outward. The daughter of Hecate’s skin goes stone gray but remains soft looking. 

The mist bolsters the power of the shadow, lending it protection from the sunlight as it fills the space between Adele and the two wary giants. Shapes began to emerge out of the mist, tents and vendor booths, food trucks, and even the shapes of people. Adele stands there smiling calmly.

You can hear whispering voices in the mist—half heard things, indistinct and curious. The scent of cold, ancient stone fills your senses, along with … corn dogs and gyros. 

“Wow, Adele. This is way better than the card tricks you taught us to perform at the camp talent show.” Shai nods appreciatively.

“I will turn you into a cow, Shai,” Adele warns, cooly.

“Wait, what??? That’s so cool. What do ya think her favorite type of cow is? Mine’s the Tauroi Aithiopikoi,” Shai says to Ryan. “Red hides AND impenetrable!”

“Let her do her thing, dude,” Ryan says, punching Shai in the arm.

<Adele’s Mist Solidifies> 

The mist and shadow solidify into what appears to be a swap meet area. You do notice a few differences however. The tent-booths are fancy, brightly colored Renaissance Faire tents, not the usual modern pop-up tents you’d normally see at an event like this—whatever normal means.

You note that there are no people at any of the tents, just the sounds associated with folks selling things and enticing potential buyers in a sort of enthusiastic whisper. We have nothing in big and small sizes.

It’s a bit eerie. There is a seating area, containing two large, ornate wooden chairs. They look to be about giant size. Directly in front of them is a small low fenced presentation space.

Ryan and Shai step between the presentation space and the chairs and gesture for the giants to take a seat.

“Gentlemen, please take your places of honor.” Ryan bows.

“We will because we deserve them, not because you’ve offered, little hero,” says the taller of the two. The giants raise their chins, harrumph a bit and then seat themselves.

“Who are these two?” you ask.

“Otis has green hair, and Ephialtes has purple. Don’t look at Ephialtes’s snake legs. He’s sensitive about that,” says Ryan through the side of his mouth, before approaching the two giants.

You’ve heard of these two. In fact, weren’t these the two giants that stacked three mountains together to reach the gods? You remember hearing that these two constantly bicker with one another, but they don’t seem to be doing that now.

The biggest thing gnawing away at you is that these two giants were supposed to have been trapped in Tartarus after the second Giagantomachy. Did they get a day pass from Lord Hades? 

“Please accept this offer of gum, as is customary at the Austin branch, when important negotiations are to commence,” Ryan offers each a pack of what you assume is the Don’t Blow Chunks gum.

Otis and Ephialtes accept the gum warily, sniffing the offering before throwing the entire pack into their respective mouths.

“Not bad,” says Otis. “Now for why we are here …”

As if on cue, Ryan’s phone alarm jingles, and the air in the fenced in viewing area shimmers. Once again you feel that deep thrumming vibration. As the pillar materializes, your sense of balance is thrown out-of-whack.

There is no nausea this time, thanks to the gum, but your shift in balance feels like the world has been turned on it’s side.   

Across the lot, the Germani aren’t faring any better. In fact it’s a regular vomitorium on that side of the property. Otis and Ephialtes don’t seem too bothered by the shift, but you do notice them white-knuckle their respective chairs.

“Puke is bad for swords, right?” you joke, trying to steady yourself.

“It gets the sad out!” Shai groans.

“Crying gets the sad out, doofus!” Adele replies.

Ryan rights himself, adjusts his camp shirt and motions toward the column with grand, sweeping gestures. “Frenemies, giants … countrymen?” Ryan cringes, then speaks out the side of his mouth. “That sounded better in my head.”

From across the yard you can hear Pontifex shouting orders at the Germani sellswords, but you can’t pick out what forms of encouragement he’s offering. Your eyes cut between the giants and the Germani wondering where the next round of trouble will come from first.

As if in response, Pontifex, in his garish yellow suit, spots you and then spits on the ground. He raises one hand in your direction as he strides toward you, picking his way through the puddles of puke.

Ryan continues, “Anyway, I’d like to trade these column, marker, thingies to both of you in exchange for your help in eliminating a pest problem we have here.” Ryan gestures toward Pontifex and the Tips Ironworks building. “Please flatten, squish, stomp and play with your food.”

Otis speaks up first. “They are certainly nice looking markers, but aside from that, what do they do? Where did you get them?”

“They diminish all hope from the area they occupy. In your case I’d recommend them as a useful way to keep folks from wanting to leave whatever party you two are planning next,” Ryan suggests.

Both giants nod, pleased. “How many are there?”

Pontifex screams, “I object! The markers do not belong to this … demigod! They are the property of the great Emperor Nero! He has not given his permission to sell or trade them to anyone!”

Ephialtes narrows his eyes, dangerously. “Who is this little ray of sunshine? Is what he says true?”

Pontifex speaks up again. “It is true. I am Pontifex, priest of Nero and I speak with his voice. Neither he nor I authorized this transaction. These liars …,” Pontifex motions toward you and the team, “are trying to deceive you. We are not your enemy, great ones.”

“Well, neither are we!” Shai replies. “We even made you a swapmeet party. These guys just crashed it!”

Ephialtes shrugs and nods his massive head, leaning forward, approvingly. “I do like a good party.”

Otis rolls his eyes and sighs, heavily, blowing up small motes of dust from the ground in front of his chair. “You got any proof you own these things, kid?”

“Ha! Of course not …” Pontifex begins, triumphantly.

“I thought you might ask,” Ryan beams. He produces a roll of badly used cardstock. You see frayed red duct tape and the words “sword insurance” hastily written across the back of the paper. “I have here a signed document from a Fulgar, Priest of Nero and voice of the emperor of Rome.”

Pontifex was already pretty pale, but now he looks like a ghost. “How could you?” He sputters.

Ryan hands the “document” to Otis, who half squints at the paper. It looks like a postage stamp in his hands.

“This his mark? What did you say your name was again?” Otis drops his gaze to Pontifex.

Before Pontifex can answer, another figure pops his head up from a lidless manhole set back behind Adele.

“Banana-man. His name is banana man!” says the young man. His sunny face and mop of black hair are punctuated by a mischievous grin.

“Hey, Yasin. Glad you could make it. How’s the Austin Nome doing?” Adele smiles.

“The Texas Nome is still in Dallas. For now, anyway. We are on fire, as usual. Shall we roast some banana?” Yasin seats himself at the lip of the manhole and rubs his hands together, then promptly throws up. 

Shai scuttles over to his side and hands him a stick of gum. “Here, this’ll help.”

Pontifex clenches his jaw at the jab, but otherwise he ignores the nickname. He approaches Otis cautiously and peers at the name scrawled on the sheet of paper. Rage overcomes the man in yellow. Flecks of spittle and a fountain of garbled curses spew from his face.

Otis chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“How? What did you? This isn’t …” Pontifex sputters, unable to finish a sentence.

Shai smirks. “Fulgar likes to place bets he can’t cover, and he was making some bad trades with Sam, Ian, Seamus and Jake. When he finally realized he wasn’t going to be able to make the trade up from toilet paper to owner of the City of Austin, he got desperate.

I told him, I could get him back on his feet, but he’d have to beat me at Mythomagic. In the end, he lost two out of three games of Mythomagic to me. Twice. The second time he put up the markers as collateral. Says so, right on there.”

Ephialtes howls in laughter. “I bet you’re ready to kill this Fulgar fellow, aren’t you banana-man?”

“Well, I want a piece of him first,” comes Tree’s voice as he emerges next to the crumbling house. He has at least fifty demigods from Camp Half-Blood Austin and Camp Jupiter behind him in ten neat columns.

Lines of shield and spear wielding demigods in leather armor and celestial bronze and Imperial gold helmets. You release a muffled sound—part laugh, part cry, and all relief—at the sight of them.

Pontifex snarls. “He’s already dead. Killed by a hungry and petty god.”

That’s a wet blanket. There has got to be a story there.

“They are petty,” Otis agrees.

“And greedy!” Ephialtes adds.

Despite your anger at Pontifex and Fulgar, that bit of news hits you oddly. It lands in a way you aren’t prepared for. Pontifex sounds sad, almost broken. You wonder what the connection between them might be.

Could he be referring to Nero when he said petty? No, you think. Pontifex wouldn’t refer to Nero as petty. Besides, Nero isn’t a god, no matter what he says.

“We accept your offer to trade the markers for our help in battle,” Otis grins. “It hardly seems fair.”

“Fine. Have it your way,” Pontifex growls, doffing his hat and stepping back toward his mercenary line. “Disease and death shall be your shadows. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.” 

Pontifex removes his sunshine yellow suit coat and tosses it to one side. His button down shirt and vest are stained with sweat. At least, you hope it’s sweat. He calmly rolls up his sleeves and then raises his left hand.

A massive wooden mallet shimmers into his grip. This looks like one of the huge wooden hammers you’ve seen in old sepia toned photos of circuses. The kind that were used by circushands to drive the three ring tent stakes into the ground. The head of the weapon is banded in two thick metal rings. The handle and head of the mallet are worn smooth, polished from use. It must be over five feet in length.

“Are you interrupting our swap meet, banana-man?” Yasin asks, summoning his own weapon from thin air. A khopesh.

“I’m going to do more than interrupt,” Pontifex flashes his needle-like grin. “Destroy them all! Kill the prisoners inside!”

Pontifex lowers the war mallet toward you and the giants. The still pukey Germani mercenaries and the puke-inspiring plague spirits roar and gurgle as they surge toward you from across the far side of the lot.