Bringer of Fire: Rebels of Olympus, #3

By Michele Amitrani

Sometimes the truths we choose to ignore cast the longest shadows …

 

In the distant Caucasus Mountains, an ancient demon is chained to a rock. People say the gods put him there as punishment for an unspeakable crime, for which the penalty is perennial damnation.

 

When Zid, an explorer with a faulty leg and an inquisitive mind, learns the legend of the demon, he sets out to find the truth. But after a heartbreaking discovery on a bleak mountainside, the tale begins to crumble. Zid is left questioning the truth behind the origins of humankind and the biggest threat to human liberty.

 

Will Zid risk his own life to fight the gods' treachery? He must choose between friendship and freedom as his actions set him against the most powerful of the Olympian gods: Zeus himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Amitrani
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781988770147

Book preview

1

THE SEEKER OF SHADOWS

The nomad hadn’t lied when he told me about the screams coming from the mountains. After my conversation with him, I would hear his tale many times over from people living in the valley, each of them relating a slightly different version of the same story.

However, the nomad’s account, without doubt, had been the most detailed. It was also the only version that offered directions whereby I could reach the peaks and uncover the truth behind the rumors.

Curiosity and my father’s love for discovery were two reasons I had decided to undergo the journey, but there was something else that made me persevere, though I didn’t want to admit it at the time. The wounds of the past never stop festering. You just learn how to live with them.

I had never been a good climber, and the prospect of traveling in a region with cliffs and sharp rocks did not appeal to me, particularly in those days, when my bad leg failed me often.

For two days and two nights, I rode through the mostly desert region, following the map the nomad had drawn for me. On the third day, a snake with a purple head bit my horse. The poor beast died in a few minutes. From that point, I had to walk.

The next morning, I arrived in a remote village not far from the mountains, a paltry collection of buildings little more than huts. The inhabitants were dressed poorly, in rags patched together with animal skins. Some appeared to be hunters, as they carried short bows made of dark wood that shone dully in the sunlight. Shepherds, covered in furs, also walked about selling dried meat, milk and hard cheese in the small market at the center of the settlement. A few dark-skinned people sold spiced wine, ale and cider. The village was a mere speck of civilization in the midst of that rocky desert.

I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived. The nomad had said that every day at noon the people in the valley heard a noise that sounded like screams booming between gusts of wind. He had said the screams belonged to a shadow demon who had been punished by the gods for some unspeakable crime he had committed. None knew what the crime was, but apparently the screams had been heard since time immemorial. Some said they went back to the beginning of civilization.

Folklore tales can be as colorful as rainbows. If there is something I have learned from my many travels, it is that the more a tale is traded among folk, the more unlikely and fascinating it becomes. And that is why it spreads.

That village was the epicenter of the story. If ever there was a place to find answers, I was in it.

The settlement was so small it had no name—and no place on any map. Most of the people I saw there appeared to be long past their prime. There were more women than men, and none looked happy to be there. Pigs and goats roamed freely among the homes, scavenging scraps of garbage from the dust. The few children I came across ran among the low buildings naked, chasing chickens.

There was a tiny public square in the center of the village, right beside the market. I stopped there and sat on a stone near the village well. It was still early, so I waited for the inexorable rising of the sun.

Noon came, and with it the fabled noise.

It arose from the north, where the mountain peaks rose like gigantic teeth.

In the beginning, I didn’t know what to make of the sound. To me it resembled a long, loud wailing from a beast in the process of being butchered. But then, as I kept listening, I heard something else: a prolonged, high-pitched sound. Someone was crying with pain. I could not be sure from that distance, but indeed the noise sounded like screams.

I looked around. None of the people paused or even glanced at the peaks. For them, it must have been as familiar as the dust on the ground. The screams lasted for several minutes, then cut off. The eerie silence that had surrounded the valley hung heavy in the air.

I rose slowly from my spot, and immediately put a hand to my right knee, letting my fingers rub it slowly. I had treated myself poorly in the past few days, eager to get to the village, and now I was paying the price. I clenched my teeth and ambled forward, favoring that leg and doing my best to ignore the pain. I stopped the passersby I came across, one by one, and asked questions.

What is that noise I heard, good man? I would ask, offering a smile and pointing toward the peaks. Kind lady, a moment of your time, if you please. The scream coming from the mountains: What do you make of it?

For the rest of the afternoon, I asked questions of the people I passed. The answers I got were more or less the same.

The noise comes from a shadow demon, they would say, and it lasts as long as the punishment given to him by the gods lasts. As for the punishment itself, no one knew what it was, or why the gods had given it to the demon.

It was exactly as the nomad had said. The people of the village knew the story, but they didn’t really have any opinion on the matter. They didn’t question the noise, as most men don’t wonder about the changing of the seasons, or the movements of the stars. They lived with these phenomena without asking why.

Only one of them, a girl who could not have been over ten, asked questions of her own. She had long, dirty-blond hair and huge brown eyes.

What’s your name, stranger? she asked, after regarding me from behind the stone well.

My name is Zid, I said.

Where do you come from, Zid? She glanced over my wide red cloak and my long wool tunic, hanging over a purple vest. Your clothes look strange. Your face is odd.

I come from far away. I pointed toward the valley. From the west, although the entire world is my home. I’m a traveler, a philosopher and a historian.

The girl frowned at that. I assumed she didn’t know what ‘philosopher’ and ‘historian’ meant.

Why did you come? she asked after pondering my words. Other people stopped to listen to our conversation.

I came here after learning the story of the shadow demon. I nodded toward the peaks. I want to unveil the mystery brought by the mountains.

She looked at me as if I had just admitted I wanted to measure the sky. Then you must be mad, she said, giggling, for there is no mystery to unveil. You already told me you know the story of the demon, didn’t you?

I know the story, yes, I said, crossing my arms. But I will never know what’s true until I go out there and find out.

"So curiosity brought you here," she said with a bemused smile.

Well … yes, I said, frowning. What’s wrong with that?

Nothing. The girl shrugged. It just proves you’re mad.

I pressed my lips, suddenly aware that people around me were chuckling. Why? I asked.

The girl walked up to me. Why? You’re going to go up there, in the wasteland where rocks are as sharp as knives and the wind bites its cold teeth through wool and fur, likely risking your life, just for curiosity’s sake? She narrowed her eyes at me. What are you, if not a madman?

I leaned over the stone well and smiled at her. You have a quick mind and an even quicker tongue, child. You’re right. Curiosity is only half of the reason.

The girl wrinkled her nose as she