Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson and the Olympians
heard in my dream.
27
27
The morning of the race was hot and humid. Fog lay low on the ground like sauna steam.
Millions of birds were roosting in the trees—fat gray-and-white pigeons, except they didn't coo like
regular pigeons. They made this annoying metallic screeching sound that reminded me of subma-
rine radar.
The racetrack had been built in a grassy field between the archery range and the woods.
Hephaestus's cabin had used the bronze bulls, which were completely tame since they'd had their
heads smashed in, to plow an oval track in a matter of minutes.
There were rows of stone steps for the spectators— Tantalus, the satyrs, a few dryads, and
all of the campers who weren't participating. Mr. D didn't show. He never got up before ten o'clock.
"Right!" Tantalus announced as the teams began to assemble. A naiad had brought him a
big platter of pastries, and as Tantalus spoke, his right hand chased a chocolate eclair across the
judge's table. "You all know the rules. A quarter-mile track. Twice around to win. Two horses per
chariot. Each team will consist of a driver and a fighter. Weapons are allowed. Dirty tricks are
expected. But try not to kill anybody!" Tantalus smiled at us like we were all naughty children. "Any
killing will result in harsh punishment. No s'mores at the campfire for a week! Now ready your
chariots!"
Beckendorf led the Hephaestus team onto the track. They had a sweet ride made of bronze
and iron—even the horses, which were magical automatons like the Colchis bulls. I had no doubt
that their chariot had all kinds of mechanical traps and more fancy options than a fully loaded
Maserati.
The Ares chariot was bloodred, and pulled by two grisly horse skeletons. Clarisse climbed
aboard with a batch of javelins, spiked balls, caltrops, and a bunch of other nasty toys.
Apollo's chariot was trim and graceful and completely gold, pulled by two beautiful
palominos. Their fighter was armed with a bow, though he had promised not to shoot regular
pointed arrows at the opposing drivers.
Hermes's chariot was green and kind of old-looking, as if it hadn't been out of the garage in
years. It didn't look like anything special, but it was manned by the Stoll brothers, and I shuddered to
think what dirty tricks they'd schemed up.
That left two chariots: one driven by Annabeth, and the other by me.
Before the race began, I tried to approach Annabeth and tell her about my dream.
She perked up when I mentioned Grover, but when I told her what he'd said, she seemed to
get distant again, suspicious.
"You're trying to distract me," she decided.
"What? No I'm not!"
"Oh, right! Like Grover would just happen to stumble across the one thing that could save
the camp."
"What do you mean?"
She rolled her eyes. "Go back to your chariot, Percy."
"I'm not making this up. He's in trouble, Annabeth."
She hesitated. I could tell she was trying to decide whether or not to trust me. Despite our
occasional fights, we'd been through a lot together. And I knew she would never want anything bad
to happen to Grover.
"Percy, an empathy link is so hard to do. I mean, it's more likely you really were dreaming."
"The Oracle," I said. "We could consult the Oracle."
Annabeth frowned.
Last summer, before my quest, I'd visited the strange spirit that lived in the Big House attic
and it had given me a prophecy that came true in ways I'd never expected. The experience had
freaked me out for months. Annabeth knew I'd never suggest going back there if I wasn't completely
serious.
Before she could answer, the conch horn sounded.
"Charioteers!" Tantalus called. "To your mark!"
"We'll talk later," Annabeth told me, "after I win."
As I was walking back to my own chariot, I noticed how many more pigeons were in the trees