Frank shook his head in disbelief. “No, no, no…” he muttered as he ran to her side.
The medics barked at everyone to stand back and give her air. The whole legion fell silent as the healers worked—trying to get gauze and powdered unicorn horn under Gwen’s armor to stop the bleeding, trying to force some nectar into her mouth. Gwen didn’t move. Her face was ashen gray.
Finally one of the medics looked up at Reyna and shook his head.
For a moment, there was no sound except water from the ruined cannons trickling down the walls of the fort. Hannibal nuzzled Gwen’s hair with his trunk.
Reyna surveyed the campers from her pegasus. Her expression was as hard and dark as iron. “There will be an investigation. Whoever did this, you cost the legion a good officer. Honorable death is one thing, but this . . . ”
Frank wasn’t sure what she meant. Then he noticed the marks engraved in the wooden shaft of the pilum: CHT I LEGIO XII F. The weapon belonged to the First Cohort, and the point was sticking out the front of her armor. Gwen had been speared from behind—possibly after the game had ended.
Frank scanned the crowd for Octavian. The centurion was watching with more interest than concern, as if he were examining one of his stupid gutted teddy bears. He didn’t have a pilum.
Blood roared in Frank’s ears. He wanted to strangle Octavian with his bare hands, but at that moment, Gwen gasped.
Everyone stepped back. Gwen opened her eyes. The color came back to her face.
“Wh-what is it?” She blinked. “What’s every
one staring at?” She didn’t seem to notice the seven-foot harpoon sticking out through her chest.
Behind Frank, a medic whispered, “There’s no way. She was dead. She has to be dead. ”
Gwen tried to sit up, but couldn’t. “There was a river, and a man asking…for a coin? I turned around and the exit door was open. So I just…I just left. I don’t understand. What’s happened?”
Everyone stared at her in horror. Nobody tried to help.
“Gwen. ” Frank knelt next to her. “Don’t try to get up. Just close your eyes for a second, okay?”
“Why? What—”
“Just trust me. ”
Gwen did what he asked.
Frank grabbed the shaft of the pilum below its tip, but his hands were shaking. The wood was slick. “Percy, Hazel—help me. ”
One of the medics realized what he was planning. “Don’t!” he said. “You might—”
“What?” Hazel snapped. “Make it worse?”
Frank took a deep breath. “Hold her steady. One, two, three!”
He pulled the pilum out from the front. Gwen didn’t even wince. The blood stopped quickly.
Hazel bent down to examine the wound. “It’s closing on its own,” she said. “I don’t know how, but—”
“I feel fine,” Gwen protested. “What’s everyone worried about?”
With Frank and Percy’s help, she got to her feet. Frank glowered at Octavian, but the centurion’s face was a mask of polite concern.
Later, Frank thought. Deal with him later.
“Gwen,” Hazel said gently, “there’s no easy way to say this. You were dead. Somehow you came back. ”
“I…what?” She stumbled against Frank. Her hand pressed against the ragged hole in her armor. “How—how?”
“Good question. ” Reyna turned to Nico, who was watching grimly from the edge of the crowd. “Is this some power of Pluto?”
Nico shook his head. “Pluto never lets people return from the dead. ”
He glanced at Hazel as if warning her to stay quiet. Frank wondered what that was about, but he didn’t have time to think about it.
A thunderous voice rolled across the field: Death loses its hold. This is only the beginning.
Campers drew weapons. Hannibal trumpeted nervously. Scipio reared, almost throwing Reyna.
“I know that voice,” Percy said. He didn’t sound pleased.
In the midst of the legion, a column of fire blasted into the air. Heat seared Frank’s eyelashes. Campers who had been soaked by the cannons found their clothes instantly steam-dried. Everyone scrambled backward as a huge soldier stepped out of the explosion.
Frank didn’t have much hair, but what he did have stood straight up. The soldier was ten feet tall, dressed in Canadian Forces desert camouflage. He radiated confidence and power. His black hair was cut in a flat-topped wedge like Frank’s. His face was angular and brutal, marked with old knife scars. His eyes were covered with infrared goggles that glowed from inside. He wore a utility belt with a sidearm, a knife holster, and several grenades. In his hands was an oversized M16 rifle.
The worst thing was that Frank felt drawn to him. As everyone else stepped back, Frank stepped forward. He realized the soldier was silently willing him to approach.