Miltiades slipped across the Eukrates Bridge, skimming the crenellations. Ekkos thrived at the confluence of the Eukrates and Timoros, its fortified bridges bustling with merchants. Ekkos, his ancestral city—home to his centuries-old dynasty.
Rooks cawed overhead, observing as he slipped through the gate. Miltiades glanced up at a row of black birds. He held his breath, wishing they would take flight as a sign to retreat. The birds remained silent, their eyes locked on him. The gods judged him through these birds, their eyes from Olympus demanding proof. He resolved to enter Ekkos to demonstrate his dedication. He moved from the edge to the center of the causeway, straightened his posture, inhaled deeply, and marched into Ekkos.
Tall and wiry, Miltiades’ patchy beard clung stubbornly to his face. His hair, tied in a tight ponytail, framed a prince's graceful yet defiant stance.
The guard towers loomed, the gates shrieking hollow warnings. Miltiades slid through the gate and climbed the rubble ahead. Sneaking into his own city—ironic.
Miltiades breathed deeply, remembering the Ekkos in its former glory. Soldiers directing traffic among the stacked whitewashed houses. With the marble of the Temple of Zeus as its crown. The childhood palace. And the vibrant marketplace with the smell of roasted meats. The walls protecting everyone within. Miltiades once debated a philosopher on city ownership—king or citizen? Now, both arguments felt absurd.
One day had changed everything.
Hope lingered, yet reality loomed. Once the fires died, homes crumbled into mounds of plaster and charred wood. Bushes and vines thrived where their roots crawled into recesses. The walls that once repelled armies struggled to keep curious children away. Only the bridges stood solid and undamaged, yet no one dared cross them into the city’s husk.
None who entered the city after that day returned. Their fate unknown, as oracles advised staying away. Armies met a similar fate. Renowned Heroes came to claim the crown, gone. A few broken bodies later floated face down in the Timoros River. Tales of curses, dark cults, and monstrosities circulated, growing with each retelling. Few now dared speak Ekkos’ name for fear of its fate. The tale inspired multiple plays, showcasing ordinary people performing heroic acts and self-sacrifice.
Except for Miltiades – he would return. With Ekkos’ secret – that was his plan. A plan he doubted more with each step.
Nothing stirred beyond. The light breeze across the Eukrates avoided the city. The silence was oppressive.
A spear jutted from the cracked stone where the Ekkosian army once fought bravely. But how could hoplites stop a creature lurking beneath the earth, striking from below? By sundown, only a few hundred survived, and even fewer endured the ensuing chaos.
The stories shared common elements. An escaped Titan and came to Ekkos that day, burrowing deep and sending its inhuman limbs into the city, killing anything in its path and destroying structures. It decimated the city in less than a day. A few hours was all it needed to bring a final end to Ekkos.
As the sun faded, isolation gripped him. What am I doing? Miltiades needed the truth, no matter how horrific. His mind raced. Did the Titan still lurk beneath the streets? Was Ekkos hiding an enchantress? Did the shades of the lost linger after nightfall?
His father’s words echoed: 'A prince must serve his people.’ And his people needed their city. Anyone else would omit details in a report, details Miltiades would need before reopening the city to its people. Before they could rebuild a new Ekkos. He had thought his father meant leading armies and enduring veiled insults from foreign diplomats.
A low thud pulled Miltiades from his thoughts. He crouched, revealing a dim light nearby. A hooded man fumbled with a sputtering torch. Miltiades struck; the man gasped and fell.
Silence.
Crouched, Miltiades waited for any sign of discovery. He raised his head.
Nothing.
Ekkos remained still.
After a moment without signs of discovery, Miltiades allowed himself to move again. The torch dimmed, but Miltiades revived it with a torn tunic. Careful to keep a low profile, he examined the man. The torch dimmed, but Miltiades revived it with a torn tunic. He searched the robe for signs of cult affiliation: a brand, tattoo, or armband. A brand, a tattoo, or an armband. He bore no bag or coin purse, nothing that could identify him.
“What are you doing?” A man called at Miltiades. “You shouldn’t be here.”
In his focus on the dead man, Miltiades let his guard down allowing this robed cultist wearing to sneak up on him. Miltiades reached for his dagger, only to realize it was still in the other cultist’s body. The new cultist was upon him, trying to grab Miltiades. Their arms locked together, and the cowl fell to reveal a face pockmarked by acne scars and a fighter’s nose. The dull torchlight shun from below made him look sinister.
They pushed each other in a wide circle, jockeying for position, skidding and stumbling on the uneven ground. Miltiades knew his opponent would soon overpower him. He shoved Miltiades, sending him to the ground.
His ugly snarling face bared his teeth and pounced. “Now you die!” The cultist wrapped his fingers around Miltiades’ neck in an unbreakable hold. Miltiades’ heart thumped on his temple. He fumbled around to find a something. Anything. Dirt. He flailed and slapped the dirt onto the cultist.
The grip released. The cultist howled in pain, grabbing his eyes. Miltiades crawled away, panting. Lumber! He grabbed a wooden post and swung it against the cultist whose head twisted. The cultist went limp. Two more swings ended the job.
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Miltiades collapsed, breathing through his mouth. Relieved to be alive. He recovered his dagger. He promised himself he’d never get caught unaware again.
The second man’s belongings yielded nothing important. Worn and torn simple brown robes, as if they disrespected their own rituals. How did he know Miltiades was not one of them? The robes? Where did they meet? Who led them?
A growing glow revealed a silent procession of twenty hooded figures approaching at a snail’s pace. Miltiades donned the robe and hood and approached the others, expecting a challenge.
Nothing.
He got in line and followed the others. No challenge. His fingers brushing the dagger in his sleeve, its steel a small comfort. Miltiades counted thirty in the procession. A third carried lamps or torches whose dim light revealed a path without vegetation. They had to come here often enough to maintain a path. A shiver passed through him as he realized he had no backup plan and no idea how to deal with the beast when he came face-to-face with it.
The urge to flee returned, but no opportunity arose as the path wound up the Acropolis, no other trails crossing theirs. He questioned whether the others shared his desire, but none broke rank.
More cultists joined the line, their dirty robes hiding their identities. A few stood out through their physical peculiarities. One tall figure, Giant, walked with a severe limp. Another, Crutch Lady, leaned on a crutch-like stick whose occasional groans betrayed her as an old woman. The rest were unremarkable and kept quiet as they proceeded through Ekkos.
Atop the Acropolis, they entered the royal palace where the rubble was denser, made of stone rather than the city’s usual wood and plaster. Anger surged in Miltiades as he stepped over a broken marble torso of Apollo. Someone had to pay for this destruction.
The cooling evening air bit through his robe, leaving Miltiades shivering. His resolve focused on vanquishing the beast and bringing the cult leaders to justice.
The roof of the once-mighty Temple of Zeus lay shattered among the broken remnants of columns that once held it aloft. The massive bronze statue of Zeus inside the temple. Not even a greened hand remained. Zeus was gone. In its place, a dark hole gaped, roughly three yards across. Miltiades recalled a black iron funnel topped by an eternal flame that burned at the feet of the bronze Zeus. Around the hole, debris formed an amphitheater of shattered roof pieces, column stones, and other remnants.
The cultists spread around the remains of the temple, sought stable standing ground new the few light sources. Once everyone settled, the torches or lamps were tossed into the hole without ceremony. An occasional metallic clanking echoed up from the pit.
Only the moon above illuminated the gathering with a weak, pale light. As if it preferred to be anywhere else.
One cultist, Priest, began a guttural hymn, a rhythmic chant of Grump Drump Stomp. The R-sounds rolled like drums, punctuated by stomping feet. The others joined in the chant. Miltiades mimicked their movements to avoid suspicion, grateful for the hood covering his face. He focused closely on the one who initiated the chant, whom he labeled the Priest.
Grump.
The gibbous moon disappeared behind shreds of clouds, casting inconsistent light over the assembly. The pale light cast dark overtones on the scene, contrasting with numerous shadows. Shadowy fingers danced over the cultists making Miltiades shudder.
He wondered why these people came, and enduring this ritual. What did they expect for their participation? No one led the chant; Priest’s voice was just one among many. They droned the three syllables in unison.
Dozens of tiny wings flapped above as rooks landed to watch. Did the gods send spies to report what was about to happen? Did they approve?
Drump.
Miltiades realized the only way out was to climb and leave the temple. No armed guards kept people in their place, but he could not shake the impression the place was guarded by invisible guardians. They worried him more than the horror in the bottomless pit.
A cultist, Curious, walked through the assembly to approach the hole. No one else reacted. He leaned over the dark pit and let out a “Yee-Hoo” that went unanswered. Not even an echo. He returned to his previous spot and resumed his chanting.
Stomp.
Miltiades kept glancing at Curious, joining in the familiar chant, unconcerned with the lack of response from the pit.
A light tremor followed, causing many to stop chanting, including Miltiades. They spread their heads to maintain balance, glancing around to reassure each other. Only a few continued.
Grump.
A second tremor shook the acropolis, more powerful than the first one. Terror gripped Miltiades. They were summoning a Titan! The destroyer of Ekkos!
Drump.
Many turned and fled into the darkness, but most stood their ground, heads swiveling. Crutch Lady, Giant, and Priest stood in place, still chanting while Curious worked on his balance, arms extended as the stone under him wobbled. No one stepped forward to restore order as they chanted amidst the chaos.
Stomp.
The tempo increased as Priest and the others extended their arms and wiggled their fingers to the odd rhythm. Miltiades couldn’t help but take a half-step back, yet he extended his fingers.
Grump.
Screams. Then, the grinding of stone echoed behind him. Something caught the fleeing cultists. The previously invisible guardians!
Drump.
Rubble creatures emerged at the edge of the lamps. Taller than two men, they resembled humanoid collections of stones, with tiny red glowing orbs for eyes. The rubble creatures held broken bodies in their hands, some groaning or whimpering.
A quick count revealed few had escaped. The cult tolerated neither cowards nor unbelievers.
Stomp.
A stronger tremor shifted the rubble, sending pebbles tumbling toward the hole. Several cultists, including Crutch Lady, fell without breaking their chant. Curious danced for a firmer footing.
Miltiades counted ten stone-things as they approached the hole, shoving chanting cultists aside. He cursed when he remembered his belt held only a dagger.
Grump.
In unison, the stone-things dropped their captives into the pit. The victims flashed briefly in the moonlight before the hole swallowed them. The silence rattled Miltiades the most. He had no idea how long they would fall into this bottomless abyss.
Drump.
The tremors turned to drumming, echoing the Grump-Drump-Stomp chant, but only a few continued. Something approached. Large enough to shake the entire acropolis. More cultists fled in fear, pursued by the rubble creatures.
Stomp.
A massive creature emerged from the hole, a grotesque mix of praying mantis and tentacled worm. The Titan screeched, its maw clicking and clacking. It had yet to fully emerge from the hole! His eyes confirmed what his intuition warned him about. Miltiades ran. Stumbled over stone blocks. Climbed with his hands. Pulled himself up.
Giant cut him off as they scrambled over the same stone block. Stronger than Miltiades, he reached the top first. Not waiting, he sprinted away before a stone-thing seized him in its massive hand. He pounded the creature with his massive fists but the rubble-thing snapped his back, then lumbered toward the Titan.
Miltiades seized the moment to slip into the ruins of Ekkos. With a final glance towards the hole, he saw the Titan gorging on the zealous, flinging Crutch Lady into its maw. It showed no loyalty, its insectoid limbs devouring the summoners as they chanted. The chant of grump, drump, stomp faded as the moon withdrew, unwilling to look back.
He swore he’d get revenge on that Titan. For Giant.
For Ekkos.
For himself.