Then I refocus and survey the top of the maze. No one else has joined me up here yet, but I can’t take for granted that there isn’t someone else among the champions who’s capable of it. I have to get moving. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to be able to jump from wall to wall the way I did before. If my leg gives out, a fall will do more damage than Theseus did.
I twist a little, searching for the door to the exit. It’s near the archway we came in, which is in front of me and to the right. I try to control my rapid breathing as I map a path there. It will take more time, but I have a key and I just need to avoid the other champions. I should be able to do it.
The roar of the crowd changes. I thought it was intense before, but it’s nothing compared to the sound that shakes the arena now. It’s bloodthirsty. I turn in time to see the screens switch to Patroclus and Hector fighting.
I gasp as Hector delivers a devastating punch to Patroclus’s stomach. From the look of them, they’ve been fighting for some time. Both sport bloodied knuckles and their handsome faces are broken and bruised, almost unrecognizable. Both weave on their feet as they circle each other.
They’re in the best shape of their lives, but Hector moves more like Achilles…as if on instinct. I can practically see Patroclus’s brain trying to map out his next strike, trying to anticipate his opponent. It would work on anyone else, but not Hector. He’s too quick. I’ve never seen him fight, but he worked under Ares for years before transferring to Apollo. Apparently his time behind a desk haven’t softened him at all.
Patroclus is going to lose.
My heart lodges itself in my throat. I scan the maze to try to figure out where they are. I don’t know if I can help, but I have to try. I don’t think Hector would permanently harm Patroclus; at least, he wouldn’t do it on purpose. But accidents happen, especially in fights, especially when the stakes are so high.
There.
They aren’t far. I could reach them in just a few minutes…but it means going in the opposite direction of the exit. If Patroclus is no match for Hector, I’m certainly not, either. Helping him might very well mean sacrificing my chance to pass the second trial.
Hector lands a punch that snaps Patroclus’s head back. He barely stays on his feet. “No!”
A frustrated roar, heard even over the crowd, has me turning to find Achilles charging down the path. In the wrong direction.
I don’t stop to think. I just scream. “Achilles!”
Somehow he hears me. He slams to a stop and looks up. I point in the opposite direction. “He’s there!” A quick look is enough to map his course. “Two rights. Left. Right. Three lefts.”
He nods and then he’s off, flawlessly following my instructions. Within seconds, he careens around the corner nearest the fight and takes Hector down in a flying leap. He looks as fresh as when we entered the maze, and I exhale shakily. It will be fine. Achilles will take care of Patroclus. He won’t let his lover be killed.
Thank the gods.
I force myself to tear my gaze from the fight. They will be okay. I have to worry about myself right now. There’s nothing else I can do to help, nothing they need my help for. With one last glance at the screens, I leverage myself to my feet and start making my winding way toward the exit.
My leg holds, which is a bit of a miracle, but each step is agony. I catch sight of the Minotaur lumbering through the maze a few paths over. He looks up as I move past, narrowing his eyes. I tense, but he simply turns away, heading for the last few turns between him and the center of the maze.
I stop on the wall across from the door and ease down to drop to the floor. My leg finally buckles and I land on my ass. “Ouch.”
“Impressive.”
I look up to find Atalanta standing over me, a grin on her scarred face. In her hand, she holds a key. I offer back a tired grin of my own. “Right back at you.”
She opens her mouth, but her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps to the ground. Behind her stands Paris. He shakes his head. “Poor thing. She never saw me coming.”
I flinch, my body reacting before my mind fully processes that Paris has knocked Atalanta out. For a moment, something dark flickers across his face and I can practically see him weighing the chance to kick me while I’m down—maybe literally—and his desire to maintain his image as the charming playboy that Olympus believes him to be.