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They rounded a bend in the road and Nico’s fists clenched. More monsters...hundreds more. Dog-headed men prowled in packs, their poleaxes gleaming in the light of campfires. Beyond that milled a tribe of two-headed men dressed in rags and blankets like homeless guys, armed with a haphazard collection of slings, clubs, and metal pipes.

“Octavian is an idiot,” Nico hissed. “He thinks he can control these creatures?”

“They just kept showing up,” Leila said. “Before we knew it...well, look.”

The legion was arrayed at the base of Half-Blood Hill, its five cohorts in perfect order, its standards bright and proud. Giant eagles circled overhead. The siege weapons—six golden onagers the size of houses—were arrayed behind in a loose semicircle, three on each flank. But for all its impressive discipline, the Twelfth Legion looked pitifully small, a splotch of demigod valor in a sea of ravenous monsters.

Nico wished he still had the scepter of Diocletian, but he doubted a legion of dead warriors would make a dent in this army. Even the Argo II couldn’t do much against this kind of strength.

“I have to disable the onagers,” Nico said. “We don’t have much time.”

“You’ll never get close to them,” Leila warned. “Even if we get the entire Fourth and Fifth Cohorts to follow us, the other cohorts will try to stop us. And those siege weapons are manned by Octavian’s most loyal followers.”

“We won’t get close by force,” Nico agreed. “But alone, I can do it. Dakota, Leila—Jules-Albert will drive you to the legion lines. Get out, talk to your troops, convince them to follow your lead. I’ll need a distraction.”

Dakota frowned. “All right, but I’m not hurting any of my fellow legionnaires.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Nico growled. “But if we don’t stop this war, the entire legion will be wiped out. You said the monster tribes take insult easily?”

“Yes,” Dakota said. “I mean, for instance, you make any comment to those two-headed guys about the way they smell and...oh.” He grinned. “If we started a brawl, by accident of course...”

“I’ll be counting on you,” Nico said.

Leila frowned. “But how will you—”

“I’m going dark,” Nico said. And he faded into the shadows.

He thought he was prepared.

He wasn’t.

Even after three days of rest and the wondrous healing properties of Coach Hedge’s gooey brown gunk, Nico started to dissolve the moment he shadow-jumped.

His limbs turned to vapor. Cold seeped into his chest. Voices of spirits whispered in his ears: Help us. Remember us. Join us.

He hadn’t realized how much he had relied on Reyna. Without her strength, he felt as weak as a newborn colt, wobbling dangerously, ready to fall at every step.

No, he told himself. I am Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. I control the shadows. They do not control me.

He stumbled back into the mortal world at the crest of Half-Blood Hill.

He fell to his knees, hugging Thalia’s pine tree for support. The Golden Fleece was no longer in its branches. The guardian dragon was gone. Perhaps they’d been moved to a safer spot with the battle so close. Nico wasn’t sure. But looking down at the Roman forces arrayed outside the valley, his spirits wavered.

The nearest onager was a hundred yards downhill, encircled in spiked trenches and guarded by a dozen demigods. The machine was primed, ready to fire. Its huge sling cupped a projectile the size of a Honda Civic, glowing with flecks of gold.

With icy certainty, Nico realized what Octavian was up to. The projectile was a mixture of incendiaries and Imperial gold. Even a small amount of Imperial gold could be incredibly volatile. Exposed to too much heat or pressure, the stuff would explode with devastating impact, and of course it was deadly to demigods as well as monsters. If that onager scored a hit on Camp Half-Blood, anything in the blast zone would be annihilated—vaporized by the heat, or disintegrated by the shrapnel. And the Romans had six onagers, all stocked with piles of ammunition.

“Evil,” Nico said. “This is evil.”

He tried to think. Dawn was breaking. He couldn’t possibly take down all six weapons before the attack began, even if he found the strength to shadow-travel that many times. If he managed it once more, it would be a miracle.


- The Blood of Olympus, Chapter 45