The Last Olympian pjato-5 Read online

  "So much for him." Kronos picked up his sword. "And now for the rest of you."

  My only thought was to keep him away from Annabeth.

  Grover was at her side now. He'd stopped playing and was feeding her ambrosia.

  Everywhere Kronos stepped, the roots wrapped around his feet, but Grover had stopped his magic too early. The roots weren't thick or strong enough to do much more than annoy the Titan.

  We fought through the hearth, kicking up coals and sparks. Kronos slashed an armrest off the throne of Ares, which was okay by me, but then he backed me up to my dad's throne.

  "Oh, yes," Kronos said. "This one will make fine kindling for my new hearth!"

  Our blades clashed in a shower of sparks. He was stronger than me, but for the moment I felt the power of the ocean in my arms. I pushed him back and struck again—slashing Riptide across his breastplate so hard I cut a gash in the Celestial bronze.

  He stamped his foot again and time slowed. I tried to attack but I was moving at the speed of a glacier. Kronos backed up leisurely, catching his breath. He examined the gash in his armor while I struggled forward, silently cursing him. He could take all the time-outs he wanted. He could freeze me in place at will. My only hope was that the effort was draining him. If I could wear him down . . .

  "It's too late, Percy Jackson," he said. "Behold."

  He pointed to the hearth, and the coals glowed. A sheet of white smoke poured from the fire, forming images like an Iris-message. I saw Nico and my parents down on Fifth Avenue, fighting a hopeless battle, ringed in enemies. In the background Hades fought from his black chariot, summoning wave after wave of zombies out of the ground, but the forces of the Titan's army seemed just as endless. Meanwhile, Manhattan was being destroyed. Mortals, now fully awake, were running in terror. Cars swerved and crashed.

  The scene shifted, and I saw something even more terrifying.

  A column of storm was approaching the Hudson River, moving rapidly over the Jersey shore. Chariots circled it, locked in combat with the creature in the cloud.

  The gods attacked. Lightning flashed. Arrows of gold and silver streaked into the cloud like rocket tracers and exploded. Slowly, the cloud ripped apart, and I saw Typhon clearly for the first time.

  I knew as long as I lived (which might not be that long) I would never be able to get the image out of my mind. Typhon's head shifted constantly. Every moment he was a different monster, each more horrible than the last. Looking at his face would've driven me insane, so I focused on his body, which wasn't much better. He was humanoid, but his skin reminded me of a meat loaf sandwich that had been in someone's locker all year. He was mottled green, with blisters the size of buildings, and blackened patches from eons of being stuck under a volcano. His hands were human, but with talons like an eagle's. His legs were scaly and reptilian.

  "The Olympians are giving their final effort." Kronos laughed. "How pathetic."

  Zeus threw a thunderbolt from his chariot. The blast lit up the world. I could feel the shock even here on Olympus, but when the dust cleared, Typhon was still standing. He staggered a bit, with a smoking crater on top of his misshapen head, but he roared in anger and kept advancing.

  My limbs began to loosen up. Kronos didn't seem to notice. His attention was focused on the fight and his final victory. If I could hold out a few more seconds, and if my dad kept his word . . .

  Typhon stepped into the Hudson River and barely sank to midcalf.

  Now, I thought, imploring the image in the smoke. Please, it has to happen now.

  Like a miracle, a conch horn sounded from the smoky picture. The call of the ocean. The call of Poseidon.

  All around Typhon, the Hudson River erupted, churning with forty-foot waves. Out of the water burst a new chariot—this one pulled by massive hippocampi, who swam in air as easily as in water. My father, glowing with a blue aura of power, rode a defiant circle around the giant's legs. Poseidon was no longer an old man. He looked like himself again—tan and strong with a black beard. As he swung his trident, the river responded, making a funnel cloud around the monster.

  "No!" Kronos bellowed after a moment of stunned silence. "NO!"

  "NOW, MY BRETHREN!" Poseidon's voice was so loud I wasn't sure if I was hearing it from the smoke image or from all the way across town. "STRIKE FOR OLYMPUS!"

  Warriors burst out of the river, riding the waves on huge sharks and dragons and sea horses. It was a legion of Cyclopes, and leading them into battle was . . .

  "Tyson!" I yelled.

  I knew he couldn't hear me, but I stared at him in amazement. He'd magically grown in size. He had to be thirty feet tall, as big as any of his older cousins, and for the first time he was wearing full battle armor. Riding behind him was Briares, the Hundred-Handed One.

  All the Cyclopes held huge lengths of black iron chains—big enough to anchor a battleship—with grappling hooks at the ends. They swung them like lassos and began to ensnare Typhon, throwing lines around the creature's legs and arms, using the tide to keep circling, slowly tangling him. Typhon shook and roared and yanked at the chains, pulling some of the Cyclopes off their mounts; but there were too many chains. The sheer weight of the Cyclops battalion began to weigh Typhon down. Poseidon threw his trident and impaled the monster in the throat. Golden blood, immortal ichor, spewed from the wound, making a waterfall taller than a skyscraper. The trident flew back to Poseidon's hand.

  The other gods struck with renewed force. Ares rode in and stabbed Typhon in the nose. Artemis shot the monster in the eye with a dozen silver arrows. Apollo shot a blazing volley of arrows and set the monster's loincloth on fire. And Zeus kept pounding the giant with lightning, until finally, slowly, the water rose, wrapping Typhon like a cocoon, and he began to sink under the weight of the chains. Typhon bellowed in agony, thrashing with such force that waves sloshed the Jersey shore, soaking five-story buildings and splashing over the George Washington Bridge—but down he went as my dad opened a special tunnel for him at the bottom of the river—an endless waterslide that would take him straight to Tartarus. The giant's head went under in a seething whirlpool, and he was gone.

  "BAH!" Kronos screamed. He slashed his sword through the smoke, tearing the image to shreds.

  "They're on their way," I said. "You've lost."

  "I haven't even started."

  He advanced with blinding speed. Grover—brave, stupid satyr that he was—tried to protect me, but Kronos tossed him aside like a rag doll.

  I sidestepped and jabbed under Kronos's guard. It was a good trick. Unfortunately, Luke knew it. He countered the strike and disarmed me using one of the first moves he'd ever taught me. My sword skittered across the ground and fell straight into the open fissure.

  "STOP!" Annabeth came from nowhere.

  Kronos whirled to face her and slashed with Backbiter, but somehow Annabeth caught the strike on her dagger hilt. It was a move only the quickest and most skilled knife fighter could've managed. Don't ask me where she found the strength, but she stepped in closer for leverage, their blades crossed, and for a moment she stood face-to-face with the Titan lord, holding him at a standstill.

  "Luke," she said, gritting her teeth, "I understand now. You have to trust me."

  Kronos roared in outrage. "Luke Castellan is dead! His body will burn away as I assume my true form!"

  I tried to move, but my body was frozen again. How could Annabeth, battered and half dead with exhaustion, have the strength to fight a Titan like Kronos?

  Kronos pushed against her, trying to dislodge his blade, but she held him in check, her arms trembling as he forced his sword down toward her neck.

  "Your mother," Annabeth grunted. "She saw your fate."

  "Service to Kronos!" the Titan roared. "This is my fate."

  "No!" Annabeth insisted. Her eyes were tearing up, but I didn't know if it was from sadness or pain. "That's not the end, Luke. The prophecy: she saw what you would do. It applies to you!"

  "I will crush you, child
!" Kronos bellowed.

  "You won't," Annabeth said. "You promised. You're holding Kronos back even now."

  "LIES!" Kronos pushed again, and this time Annabeth lost her balance. With his free hand, Kronos struck her face, and she slid backward.

  I summoned all my will. I managed to rise, but it was like holding the weight of the sky again.

  Kronos loomed over Annabeth, his sword raised.

  Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She croaked, "Family, Luke. You promised."

  I took a painful step forward. Grover was back on his feet, over by the throne of Hera, but he seemed to be struggling to move as well. Before either of us could get anywhere close to Annabeth, Kronos staggered.

  He stared at the knife in Annabeth's hand, the blood on her face. "Promise."

  Then he gasped like he couldn't get air. "Annabeth . . ." But it wasn't the Titan's voice. It was Luke's. He stumbled forward like he couldn't control his own body. "You're bleeding. . . ."

  "My knife." Annabeth tried to raise her dagger, but it clattered out of her hand. Her arm was bent at a funny angle. She looked at me, imploring, "Percy, please . . ."

  I could move again.

  I surged forward and scooped up her knife. I knocked Backbiter out of Luke's hand, and it spun into the hearth. Luke hardly paid me any attention. He stepped toward Annabeth, but I put myself between him and her.

  "Don't touch her," I said.

  Anger rippled across his face. Kronos's voice growled: "Jackson . . ." Was it my imagination, or was his whole body glowing, turning gold?

  He gasped again. Luke's voice: "He's changing. Help. He's . . . he's almost ready. He won't need my body anymore. Please—"

  "NO!" Kronos bellowed. He looked around for his sword, but it was in the hearth, glowing among the coals.

  He stumbled toward it. I tried to stop him, but he pushed me out of the way with such force I landed next to Annabeth and cracked my head on the base of Athena's throne.

  "The knife, Percy," Annabeth muttered. Her breath was shallow. "Hero . . . cursed blade . . ."

  When my vision came back into focus, I saw Kronos grasping his sword. Then he bellowed in pain and dropped it. His hands were smoking and seared. The hearth fire had grown red-hot, like the scythe wasn't compatible with it. I saw an image of Hestia flickering in the ashes, frowning at Kronos with disapproval.

  Luke turned and collapsed, clutching his ruined hands. "Please, Percy . . ."

  I struggled to my feet. I moved toward him with the knife. I should kill him. That was the plan.

  Luke seemed to know what I was thinking. He moistened his lips. "You can't . . . can't do it yourself. He'll break my control. He'll defend himself. Only my hand. I know where. I can . . . can keep him controlled."

  He was definitely glowing now, his skin starting to smoke.

  I raised the knife to strike. Then I looked at Annabeth, at Grover cradling her in his arms, trying to shield her. And I finally understood what she'd been trying to tell me.

  You are not the hero, Rachel had said. It will affect what you do.

  "Please," Luke groaned. "No time."

  If Kronos evolved into his true form, there would be no stopping him. He would make Typhon look like a playground bully.

  The line from the great prophecy echoed in my head: A hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap. My whole world tipped upside down, and I gave the knife to Luke.

  Grover yelped. "Percy? Are you . . . um . . ."

  Crazy. Insane. Off my rocker. Probably.

  But I watched as Luke grasped the hilt.

  I stood before him—defenseless.

  He unlatched the side straps of his armor, exposing a small bit of his skin just under his left arm, a place that would be very hard to hit. With difficulty, he stabbed himself.

  It wasn't a deep cut, but Luke howled. His eyes glowed like lava. The throne room shook, throwing me off my feet. An aura of energy surrounded Luke, growing brighter and brighter. I shut my eyes and felt a force like a nuclear explosion blister my skin and crack my lips.

  It was silent for a long time.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Luke sprawled at the hearth. On the floor around him was a blackened circle of ash. Kronos's scythe had liquefied into molten metal and was trickling into the coals of the hearth, which now glowed like a blacksmith's furnace.

  Luke's left side was bloody. His eyes were open—blue eyes, the way they used to be. His breath was a deep rattle.

  "Good . . . blade," he croaked.

  I knelt next to him. Annabeth limped over with Grover's support. They both had tears in their eyes.

  Luke gazed at Annabeth. "You knew. I almost killed you, but you knew . . ."

  "Shhh." Her voice trembled. "You were a hero at the end, Luke. You'll go to Elysium."

  He shook his head weakly. "Think . . . rebirth. Try for three times. Isles of the Blest."

  Annabeth sniffled. "You always pushed yourself too hard."

  He held up his charred hand. Annabeth touched his fingertips.

  "Did you . . ." Luke coughed and his lips glistened red. "Did you love me?"

  Annabeth wiped her tears away. "There was a time I thought . . . well, I thought . . ." She looked at me, like she was drinking in the fact that I was still here. And I realized I was doing the same thing. The world was collapsing, and the only thing that really mattered to me was that she was alive.

  "You were like a brother to me, Luke," she said softly. "But I didn't love you."

  He nodded, as if he'd expected it. He winced in pain.

  "We can get ambrosia," Grover said. "We can—"

  "Grover," Luke gulped. "You're the bravest satyr I ever knew. But no. There's no healing. . . ." Another cough.

  He gripped my sleeve, and I could feel the heat of his skin like a fire. "Ethan. Me. All the unclaimed. Don't let it . . . Don't let it happen again."

  His eyes were angry, but pleading too.

  "I won't," I said. "I promise."

  Luke nodded, and his hand went slack.

  The gods arrived a few minutes later in their full war regalia, thundering into the throne room and expecting a battle.

  What they found were Annabeth, Grover, and me standing over the body of a broken half-blood, in the dim warm light of the hearth.

  "Percy," my father called, awe in his voice. "What . . . what is this?"

  I turned and faced the Olympians.

  "We need a shroud," I announced, my voice cracking. "A shroud for the son of Hermes."

  TWENTY

  WE WIN FABULOUS PRIZES

  The Three Fates themselves took Luke's body.

  I hadn't seen the old ladies in years, since I'd witnessed them snip a life thread at a roadside fruit stand when I was twelve. They'd scared me then, and they scared me now—three ghoulish grandmothers with bags of knitting needles and yarn.

  One of them looked at me, and even though she didn't say anything, my life literally flashed before my eyes. Suddenly I was twenty. Then I was a middle-aged man. Then I turned old and withered. All the strength left my body, and I saw my own tombstone and an open grave, a coffin being lowered into the ground. All this happened in less than a second.

  It is done, she said.

  The Fate held up the snippet of blue yarn—and I knew it was the same one I'd seen four years ago, the lifeline I'd watched them snip. I had thought it was my life. Now I realized it was Luke's. They'd been showing me the life that would have to be sacrificed to set things right.

  They gathered up Luke's body, now wrapped in a white-and-green shroud, and began carrying it out of the throne room.

  "Wait," Hermes said.

  The messenger god was dressed in his classic outfit of white Greek robes, sandals, and helmet. The wings of his helm fluttered as he walked. The snakes George and Martha curled around his caduceus, murmuring, Luke, poor Luke.

  I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come home.
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br />   Hermes unwrapped Luke's face and kissed his forehead. He murmured some words in Ancient Greek—a final blessing.

  "Farewell," he whispered. Then he nodded and allowed the Fates to carry away his son's body.

  As they left, I thought about the Great Prophecy. The lines now made sense to me. The hero's soul, cursed blade shall reap. The hero was Luke. The cursed blade was the knife he'd given Annabeth long ago—cursed because Luke had broken his promise and betrayed his friends. A single choice shall end his days. My choice, to give him the knife, and to believe, as Annabeth had, that he was still capable of setting things right. Olympus to preserve or raze. By sacrificing himself, he had saved Olympus. Rachel was right. In the end, I wasn't really the hero. Luke was.

  And I understood something else: When Luke had descended into the River Styx, he would've had to focus on something important that would hold him to his mortal life. Otherwise he would've dissolved. I had seen Annabeth, and I had a feeling he had too. He had pictured that scene Hestia showed me—of himself in the good old days with Thalia and Annabeth, when he promised they would be a family. Hurting Annabeth in battle had shocked him into remembering that promise. It had allowed his mortal conscience to take over again, and defeat Kronos. His weak spot—his Achilles heel—had saved us all.

  Next to me, Annabeth's knees buckled. I caught her, but she cried out in pain, and I realized I'd grabbed her broken arm.

  "Oh gods," I said. "Annabeth, I'm sorry."

  "It's all right," she said as she passed out in my arms.

  "She needs help!" I yelled.

  "I've got this." Apollo stepped forward. His fiery armor was so bright it was hard to look at, and his matching Ray-Bans and perfect smile made him look like a male model for battle gear. "God of medicine, at your service."

  He passed his hand over Annabeth's face and spoke an incantation. Immediately the bruises faded. Her cuts and scars disappeared. Her arm straightened, and she sighed in her sleep.

  Apollo grinned. "She'll be fine in a few minutes. Just enough time for me to compose a poem about our victory: 'Apollo and his friends save Olympus.' Good, eh?"