Invisible ― Jason Grace

iv. another demigod claimed

THE BATTLE TURNED INTO CHAOS.

Camilla, Frank, Percy, and Hazel waded through the enemy, plowing down anyone who stood in their way. The First and Second Cohorts—pride of Camp Jupiter, a well-oiled, highly disciplined war machine—fell apart under the assault and the complete lack of experience being on the losing side. 

Percy fought like a demon, whirling through the defenders' ranks in a completely unorthodox style, rolling under their feet, slashing with his sword instead of stabbing like a Roman would, whacking campers with the flat of his blade, and generally causing mass panic. 

Octavian screamed in a shrill voice—maybe ordering the First Cohort to stand their ground, maybe trying to sing soprano (if it was the latter, Camilla figured he should stick to auguries—he wasn't very good). Percy put a stop to it easily, somersaulting over a line of shields and slamming the butt of his sword into Octavian's helmet. The centurion collapsed like a sock puppet. 

Camilla did her part, her gladius a blur through the air. Speed had always been her best quality, more than strength or strategy. She could hold her own against an opponent twice her size by ducking underneath their blade and using their momentum against them. As much as Camilla didn't really want to hurt anyone, she couldn't deny the giddy delight she felt watching a bunch of known bullies who tormented her and her cohort day in and day out fall to four of the outcast cohort's outcasts. 

It was beautifully ironic. 

Frank shot his blunt-tipped arrows until his quiver was empty, broke his pilum over a defender's head, and then resorted to his gladius. 

Meanwhile, Hazel climbed onto Hannibal's back. She charged toward the center of the fort, grinning down at her friends. "Let's go, slowpokes!" 

They ran to the center of the base. The inner keep was virtually unguarded. Obviously the defenders never dreamed an assault would get this far. Hannibal busted down the huge doors. Inside, the First and Second Cohort standard-bearers were sitting around a table playing Mythomagic with cards and figurines. The cohorts' emblems were propped carelessly against one wall. 

Hazel and Hannibal rode straight into the room, and the standard-bearers fell backward out of their chairs. Hannibal stepped onto the table, and the game pieces scattered. 

By the time the rest of the cohort caught up with them, Camilla and Percy had disarmed the enemies. Percy and Frank grabbed the banners, and the three climbed onto Hannibal's back with Hazel. They marched out of the keep triumphantly with the enemy colors. 

The Fifth Cohort formed ranks around them. Together they paraded out of the fort, past stunned enemies and lines of equally mystified allies. 

Camilla was on an adrenaline high, unable to contain her glee. After thirteen consecutive losses, their cohort had won. 

She wished Jason could see it. He would have been so happy.

Reyna circled low overhead on her pegasus. "The game is won!" She sounded as if she were trying not to laugh. "Assemble for honors!" 

Slowly the campers regrouped on the Field of Mars. Camilla saw plenty of minor injuries—some burns, broken bones, black eyes, cuts and gashes, plus a lot of very interesting hairdos from fires and exploding water cannons—but nothing that couldn't be fixed. 

Camilla and her friends slid off of Hannibal's back. Their comrades swarmed them, compliments and pats on their shoulders passing freely among them. Camilla was grinning so hard she felt like her cheeks were about to split open—until she saw Gwen. 

"Help!" somebody yelled. A couple of campers rushed out of the fortress, carrying a girl on the stretcher. They set her down, and other kids started running over. Even from a distance, Camilla could tell it was Gwen. She didn't look good. She lay on her side on the stretcher with a pilum sticking out of her armor—almost like she was holding it between her chest and her arm, but there was too much blood.