Page 12 of Crown of Serpents (Curse of Olympus #1)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pain seared through Medusa’s abdomen as she staggered out of the alley. Blood dripped from the wound inflicted by the barmaid, staining the ground with each laboured step.
Every breath was a struggle, a tangible weight pressing against her chest. Her vision blurred, her senses dulled, yet she continued walking. Medusa knew that she needed to be far away when the other townspeople discovered the mangled bodies behind the tavern. She didn’t want to leave the barmaid’s corpse with her assailants. She hadn’t wanted to kill the girl.
A gut-wrenching scream erupted behind Medusa. A patron must have stumbled upon the carnage, and the trail of blood would lead them straight to her. She needed to move faster. Medusa blocked out the pain and stumbled around the next corner. The road ahead was dark, and Medusa clung to the shadows as she hurried away from the tumult behind her.
The shouts escalated and Medusa ducked behind a food cart as doors to the tiny clay houses banged open. Curious faces peeked out, curious about the growing commotion.
Fear sparked in her blood. This was bad, very bad. Medusa pressed her hands against the gushing wound.
“Blood trail! Around the corner! The killer went this way!”
Shit. Shit. Shit. They were onto her.
Summoning the last vestiges of her strength, Medusa burst from her hiding spot, no longer clinging to the shadows. She became a wraith weaving through the labyrinthine alleys, her serpentine hair a dark banner against the moonlit sky.
“It’s her ! It’s the gorgon!” a villager’s cry pierced the night, followed by a chorus of echoing shouts: “After her! Kill the beast!”
Torches flared to life, chasing Medusa’s shadow. Her sandals hammered against the cobblestones, but the angry shouts grew only closer. Each ragged breath was a searing agony, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her.
An arrow whistled through the air, and Medusa swerved as the bronze tip dug into the cart next to her. She glanced over her shoulder to see at least a dozen angry men chasing her, three armed with bows.
More arrows whistled, one grazing her shoulder before embedding itself in a nearby door frame. A bitter curse escaped Medusa’s lips as she sprinted toward the crossroads ahead. To die like this — hunted by a rabble of fishermen, slain by the very mortals she scorned — was a fate she’d never envisioned.
Of course, Medusa had known from infancy that she could die like any mortal. Despite her terrible powers, she wasn’t like her elder sisters — Stheno and Euryale. Her flesh was just as weak as any human’s, destined to decay and return to dust. Yet, she’d always assumed her end would come at the hands of something greater, something more formidable than a torch-wielding fisherman.
But now, weakened by the gaping wound in her abdomen, tears of pain and frustration blurring her vision, doubt gnawed at her. Was this really how her life would end?
No. Medusa would not yield — not to the wretched stab wound that made her eyes sting with salt nor to a pathetic mob of mortals. Her legs carried her faster and faster as she dodged whizzing arrows, adrenaline fuelling her body. She would not die today.
When Medusa reached the crossroads, she believed it. Down the street on the right was the city gate and the looming shadows of the forest beyond. That was where she needed to go if she wanted to live — deep into the darkest woods until her pursuers could not find her.
With a surge of energy, Medusa bolted to the gate. Fifty meters ... Forty ... safety was within reach.
But the hunters were relentless. Another arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in a wine barrel with a hollow thud. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her body wracked with pain and fatigue. Thirty meters left.
A second arrow whistled through the air, prompting her serpents to hiss a warning. A last-second dodge saved her, but she stumbled, nearly falling. The villagers were now close enough that she could smell their sweat, filth, and bloodlust.
Summoning the last reserves of her energy, Medusa lunged forward. When she was twenty meters from salvation, another arrow flew … and found its mark.
A cry tore from her throat as searing pain erupted in her thigh. The bronze tip had pierced clean through, the wooden shaft protruding obscenely. The world tilted, her leg threatening to collapse beneath her as the villagers erupted in a triumphant cheer.
The gate that had seemed so close only moments ago was now out of reach. Medusa attempted to take another step and cringed. Her leg buckled in protest as her muscle was set aflame.
“We’ve got you now, little gorgon,” a raspy voice taunted from behind.
Medusa limped another step.
She could hear the metallic rasp of a sword being drawn behind her, and she crumpled to the ground. It was over. These men had chased her through their village like a frightened little girl she had once been, and they would claim her life.
The familiar wave of panic washed over her, seizing control of her limbs. No. No. No. She could not lose control of her body. Not now .
Medusa fought against the grip of the dark current that threatened to pull her under.A desperate sob was stuck in her throat. She hated nothing more than the icy waves that rendered her helpless, her limbs too weak to fight the deadly current. She would not be weak. Not again.
Medusa whirled just in time when the man lunged for her, raising his sword … and froze mid-motion, petrified when his eyes met hers. For a moment, no one moved as the other villagers that had circled her exchanged panicked glances. In the frenzy of the chase, they had forgotten the monstrous power lurking beneath her human facade. In her own terror, she had forgotten it, too.
A slow smile spread across her lips as she prowled toward the mortals who had underestimated her. But before she could attack, her vision swam, and she faltered. Her skin turned clammy, her heartbeat a frantic flutter in her chest. She had lost too much blood.
“She’s weakened!” a bearded man declared with a gruff voice. “Charge men!”
As he lunged, she stumbled back, narrowly avoiding his rusty blade. He came again, dagger raised. She gritted her teeth and blocked his arm with all her remaining strength. A searing pain shot through her side, and her knees gave in. She fell into the mud, her head crashing against the ground. The stranger tumbled on top of her, knocking the air out of her lungs.
She was trapped beneath him. A wave of blinding panic washed over her, and she writhed beneath him. She had almost made her peace with the fact that she would die in this shitty town, but Medusa needed to get this man off her.
He brought his blade to her throat. “I will slit –”
Fatal mistake: his eyes met hers. His body turned to stone, pinning her beneath its unyielding weight.
With a grunt, Medusa crawled out from under the petrified corpse, shoving it aside until it shattered on the cobblestones.
There were ten villagers left, and they had circled her. With a defiant cry, Medusa pushed herself to her feet as they lunged. Two charged, while the others formed a wall between her and the gate, her only salvation .
One swung his sword in a clumsy arc. Clearly, he was no warrior. Medusa ducked, her leg a searing agony, and swept her foot out, sending him sprawling backwards. Their eyes met, and his face contorted in shock as the petrification took hold.
The other retreated, eyes wide with terror and nearly tripping over his feet.
Medusa faced the remaining men, their eyes fixed on the ground. Blood stained her tattered dress, her knees wobbled, but she forced herself to stand tall, her gaze unwavering. Her skin was cold and clammy from the blood loss. She had to convince them to let her go. More importantly, she had to resist the maddening urge to tear through the villagers until Cisthene was nothing but stone and debris. Never mind that she likely would not survive another attack in her current condition.
“As you can see,” she purred, suppressing the tremor in her voice, “I am still very much capable of butchering you. But my appetite for blood is sated for today. Let me pass, and you may live to see another sunrise.”
Anger clouded their faces. They yearned to avenge the fallen men, yet none dared to attack.
Medusa scraped a talon across the stony cheek of her last victim and pressed on, “It’s true you might overwhelm me in your numbers, but how many of you will join him before my throat is slit.”
Silence hung heavy in the air.
Medusa limped forward, suppressing a grimace of pain.
“It only takes one glance to become trapped in stone forever.”
Finally, one of them grunted, “Let the bitch pass. We’ve lost enough today … besides, she probably won’t survive those wounds anyway. If not the blood loss, then the poison on that arrow will finish her off.”
Slowly, they parted for her, and she forced herself upright, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull her under. They retreated, their eyes fixed on the ground, as she hobbled toward the gate. The urge to vomit, to collapse, was overwhelming, but she fought it back. Showing weakness now would be her death.
As she reached the forest edge, no relief spread through her, only dread. The splintered arrow tore through her muscle with every step. With each fleeting moment, her strength waned as the poison spread through her body, setting her limbs ablaze. Still, she pressed on, her hand against the wound.
The terrain grew steeper and more treacherous. She almost stumbled over a large moss-covered boulder.
Everything became a haze as the cave entrance loomed before her. With a final, desperate surge, Medusa stumbled into its welcoming darkness, collapsing onto the cold stone floor. Oblivion claimed her before her head even hit the ground.
Medusa did not wake as a hunched figure materialised beside her unconscious form. She did not stir when the withered crone knelt, her gnarled hands shoving a foul-tasting antidote down Medusa’s throat. Not even the agonising procedure of removing the arrow from her thigh or stitching up her abdomen woke Medusa from her slumber.