Page 40 of The Coven of Ruin
The memory melted out of view, and Ares stood in a line of soldiers. He had similar armor on, except she could see where he had modified his for less protection but greater mobility. The lines of men were all stone-faced, waiting for something, matching shields in one hand and a sword or spear in the other. Ares had no shield, his hands empty, but strapped on his back were two swords. She looked out at the horizon, a large slope of land blocking the view. But then an army crested that hill. The thrill of anticipation and tension ran through the columns of men.
“Hold the line!” the man next to Ares commanded. The rushing army got closer, and most were cavalry on horseback.
“Steady!” Their energy was so charged that it reminded her of magic. As the battle cries of the opposing force grew closer, the very ground shaking with their approach, Ares finally drew his two swords. Spinning them easily, he readied himself.
“Shields!” A wall of thick shields came around them, rising to the god’s midsection. “Spears!” The tips of the spear caught in the sun as the men held them steady. Just before the two armies collided and the second set of shields closed over them, a grin broke out on his face.
Another memory filled its place. Another battle. Ares was bleeding, one of his eyes swollen closed. He held his sword in his left hand, his other around the wrist of an injured ally as he dragged him back over mangled bodies. But he was being stalked by something giant and lumbering. Its features were human-like, but everything seemed wrong, like it was created with only a basic description of a human in mind. It moved in a staggered, unnatural way, its muscles bulky and jutting out. Its mouth was too round, too large.
Ares moved the groaning man another foot and then turned to face the being. He spit, his bloodied saliva mixing with the blood-soaked earth. The creature advanced, its club of an arm coming up to smash down. Ares stabbed at its wrist and danced back out of reach. Swiping up a fallen sword, he tested the weight in his hand. The beast loomed over him again, but Ares threw the second weapon with all his strength at its eye. The blade hit its mark with impressive precision, and the creature stumbled back, its large mouth gaping in an unnatural roar.
Ares wasted no time grabbing up his friend and slinging him over his shoulders.
“Leave me,” the man rasped.
“Shut up, Marcus,” Ares snapped, adjusting his hold on him, his sword still securely in hand.
He was mortal here as well, Trista realized. He could die the same as any human man. And still, Ares had no fear, not a drop of cowardice in him. All he knew was this. War. Bloodshed. Honor, bravery. The fight, the loss. The love of his comrades. He was their god in human form, and they probably didn’t even realize it.
The god stumbled over fallen bodies, landing heavily on one knee. His chest heaved, but he got back up.
“You’ll get us both killed,” his bleeding and broken friend rasped out, crimson foam leaking from his mouth.
“I wouldn’t go and do a thing like that,” Ares quipped.
Marcus’ lips twitched into a smile. “You’re a bastard.”
“And you’re buying me at least a keg of ale tonight, and I’ll take one of those homemade pastries your wife makes. Blueberry.”
The scene slipped from her vision, replaced by darkness. Ares was in a pit, the walls a slick cement. As her eyes adjusted, she could just make out the rows of spectators above the walls. She was in some previous version of the same arena she had almost died in. Vomit threatened to rise, causing the vision to blur for a moment. Focusing and breathing deeply, her sight cleared again.
She turned her attention back to the scene in front of her. Ares was there, tunicless and armorless. All he had was a dagger twice the length of his hand as a weapon. She stared into the same lightless depths as him, her unease rushing through her.
“Come on,” he shouted, his hand coming up to beckon whatever was in the dark. She noted he was already bruised and covered in gore. The crowd chanted his name, a symphony calling for blood.
She knew when it showed itself because that same grin appeared on his face, this time crimson staining his teeth. It was the sort of smile that one gave only to Death. An impossibly large scorpion-like creature scuttled forward, its pincers clicking, its armored tail high above its head, poised to strike. The crowd roared as Ares dodged the first jab of its massive tail.
Trista could barely breathe, her trauma of The Arena threatening to pull her out of the memory. She was beginning to think he didn’t have his immortality in any of the battles. And without his god powers, she couldn’t imagine how he survived.
The monster struck again, but this time Ares only moved out of the way slightly so that he could grab onto the tail as it lifted back up. He dropped down on its head, stabbing as he landed. The monster went into a frenzy, flinging him off, his weapon still buried in its skull.
It struck blindly now. And Ares had to throw himself quickly to one side to avoid being impaled. The stinger hit the stone with a sickening crack. The cheers from the crowd were deafening.
He was tired, but he once again let the beast’s strike come dangerously close to him so he could grab ahold. This time, the creature instead flung its tail like a whip, sending him flying into the wall. It scuttled toward his beaten form, and her own anxiety broke the vision, bringing her back to the flashing scenes.
More battles. Ares was drenched in blood, holding the hand of a dying man. He was whispering to Ares, who listened intently. “I know you now.” The man’s eyes were half parted as he looked up at the god in amazement. “Please take me to your halls so I may fight with you again,” he whispered—his dying breath a prayer to The God of War. The memory faded, but Ares’ face was etched in a sort of sorrow that made her heart ache.
Another. It was night and storming. Ares stood back-to-back with a soldier, huddling together in a group of fighters doing the same. The rain had long ago soaked through their clothes. The ground they stood on was nothing but mud pulling them down hungrily. It covered them, mingling with the blood upon them.
Lightning split the skies, illuminating Ares’ grim features and the area around them. Darker than the night itself, creatures crept and clawed their way through the sludge toward the group, their black eyes flashing dangerously in the light. There were shouts from the men as they jostled each other, drawing swords.
“I don’t want to die,” a younger man’s voice cracked near Ares.
The god looked at him sharply.
“I don’t want to die,” he whined again, sobs breaking his words apart.
“What is your name?” Ares shouted over the rain. His eyes scanned the darkness in front of them again.
