Olympus: It's Not Just a Game

Chapter 1

           

            Karl crouched in the emerald gloom, silently preparing to sprint.  Twenty feet of grass and bracken separated the boy from instant death—or instant glory.  He could spot the armored ridge of the dragon's backbone through a gap in the fronds of the fern trees, and he could hear the dreadful thunder of its snore.  From here (if he were incredibly lucky), one perfectly placed lunge could pierce the creature's heart.  But luck is scarce in Olympus.

            Seven days of cunning and patience had led him to this forested glade on the hillside.  He had no time to gaze at the island spread out below him like a patchwork quilt of farms and forests, nor to appreciate the breathtaking view of the wine-dark sea, the dimmer green of the mainland beyond, or the brooding, eternal presence of the Mountain above it all.  He had to strike the dragon while it slept.  He waited for the next snore, then eased the metal gauntlet off his battle-hand.  Stealth must be his armor, not jingling mail.  One clink of metal on metal, and he would have more flame than steel could stop.

            He licked his lips and flexed his fingers, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his sword-fist as he awaited the next rumbling peal from the sleeping beast.  His fingers tiptoed down the golden haft of his sword, gripped it, and eased it out an inch—no, half an inch.  Half a whisper sighed out of the scabbard.  Karl froze.  Had the serpent heard it?

            He crouched, ears strained to hear any hesitation, any acceleration, in the beast's breathing.  Then, suddenly, he heard a bang of wood on wood—above him, behind him, and to his right.  He swiveled on one heel and looked up.  There was nothing there, nothing but the oddly geometrical green of trees on Olympus.  But from inside that green leafiness he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps: the thump, thump of sneakers on wood; the clack, clack of heels descending a staircase.  His ears led his eyes after the invisible footsteps, half expecting feet and legs to emerge from the bottom of the branches.  But none came.

            Instead, about three feet above the ground, the footsteps stopped, and he heard one word.  "There!"  It was his brother Jacob's voice.

            "What in the world!?"  The second voice, higher-pitched and incredulous, still seemed to come from the depths of the tree.  Oh, great.  A girl.

            "He's been doing this for weeks," asserted the disembodied voice of Jacob.

            Jacob, Karl's younger brother (by about ten minutes, Jacob always stressed), was hardly an identical twin.  Where Karl was proud and brave, Jacob was intelligent and sly.  He hovered about the edges of Karl's life, looking for the chance to show him up.  Such chances rarely came.  But this was his perfect moment.  Jacob stood on the stairs of his suburban basement and surveyed the scene.  There, kneeling on the concrete floor, was his brother Karl in his cybersuit; and here, leaning over his shoulder, was this girl who, for some strange reason, had never seen such a thing before.

            Any of Jacob's classmates, of course, would have known the cybersuit in a flash—half the ads on MTV these days were pushing it.  ("Olympus—it's not just a game.  It's the new reality!")  But to someone who wasn't up on modern teen culture, it must look pretty bizarre, especially in the dim light of a single red light bulb hanging from a rafter.  Would a healthy American teenager strap himself into mechanized body armor dangling from an overhead boom?  Would a normal kid writhe and twist on the floor, struggling with invisible enemies?

            Back in Olympus, Karl frantically tried to get rid of Jacob.  If the dragon overheard his voice, it was all over—and there was nowhere for him to hide this time!  He waved his hand furiously at the trees and bushes, motioning for silence.  The female voice floated out of the greenery.  "Is he having a fit?"