WHEN THE FINAL competition commences, there is no doubt Deimos will emerge victorious among his opponents. His is the blood of gods and with it, he can harness the power of the Pyramid and Damoklean sword. No one would stand a chance against him. The name given to him was chosen with apt foresight —he was the personification of dread. Soon all of the Greek world would come to fear the sound of his name alone.
If he was to be dread, his counterpart would be destruction. With them, the Cult would control everything. Some of the gathered Cultist place bets on Elena to best Lesya, while others are quick to realize should Lesya fail reining in Deimos would be impossible. It's not much of a competition between Enyo and Elena either.
The match had only just begun, but it already looks as though it's coming to a close. Enyo lifts her sword, parrying the blow aimed at her calf. She flicks the blade up —slicing Elena's cheek. Elena stumbles and Enyo spins, slashing a clean line up the girl's spine. She cries out, slipping to her knees.
Enyo levels her blade at Elena's neck. Their eyes meet and there's a moment's pause. A moment where the Cultists fear Enyo will not carry through. Killing soldiers is nothing compared to killing someone who'd been raised alongside you. Any doubt is chased away when Enyo pulls the sword back and swings. It's not just a slash to the throat —the strength and speed behind the blade takes the girl's head clean off.
She turns, glancing around at those gathered to watch and finds Deimos among them. He goes to her wearing a grim smile —face painted with the blood of Polyas and Kyberniskos— and presses his forehead against hers.
Chrysis and the Ghost of Kosmos watch the pair from afar, both their identities concealed from one another behind terrible masks weeping tears of red. "What have we done?" The Ghost whispers, betraying the feminine voice she'd kept concealed for years. The Ghost had never believed children could be turned into weapons. This display of carnage proves her wrong.
The old priestess grins behind her mask, pride filling her as she looks at her children. Deimos and Enyo. Dread and Destruction. All of Hellas would learn to fear them. "We have built machines," she proclaims.
IT'S ONLY SIMPLE tasks at first. Disposing captains, sinking ships, killing soldiers in the night —building strife between Athens and Sparta. War is inevitable, and the Cult will profit from the chaos. All it will take is a push for the two city-states to collide. Whispers begin spreading around Hellas of two demigods garbed in white-and-gold —fighting with the strength of twenty men— and one of them is a woman. No one can match their prowess. Deimos and Enyo spill blood for the thrill of it.
Tonight is no different. In the distance, moonlight glints off the still waters of the Gulf of Korinth and the lanterns and braziers pocking the city gives the horizon a soft golden glow. Rising from the land is a massive monolith, the Temple of Aphrodite sitting proudly atop it with the Akrokorinth fort in the background. The Spartan controlled fort will be filled with only corpses by the time the birds sing.
"You have the letter?" Deimos asks. Enyo nods, patting the scroll of papyrus tucked into her belt. It bore the seal of the Athenian general, Perikles, and held forged commands to conduct a raid on the fort —more fuel for the fire.
Deimos approaches the fort's entrance alone —out of the corner of his eye, he can see her, scaling the uneven stone wall with ease. "That's close en-" the sentry's statement is cut short by a knife plunging into his neck —he hadn't heard Enyo drop down behind him. She pulls the blade free with a spray of blood and lets the body fall limp at her feet with a flourish. This is too easy she thinks, smirking at her counterpart.
Together, they heave the great wooden doors shut and barricade them —trapping the sleeping Spartans. Craving the thrill of combat, Deimos smashes several jars of oil then kicks over a lit brazier. Flames jump into the night and above the roar of the fire is shouting —calls for the sleeping men to wake. A small group flows out of the barracks with spears and shields at the ready. Deimos draws his sword and Enyo spins her twin short-blades.
With a cry, she leaps through the flames bearing down on one of the Spartans. He lifts his shield in time to block the blow but misses the second blade. It prods the man's shoulder and drives him to his knees. Enyo shoves aside his shield and slashes both blades across his neck. In a trice, she is surrounded by hoplites and their spears. She sheathes both her blades —dodging and leaping over spear thrusts. Over her shoulder, Deimos is picking off the brutes one-by-one.
The point of a spear catches on the opening of her cuirass. Bringing her arm down on the lance, it breaks into two and gives an opportune opening. Enyo charges the weaponless hoplite, driving both of the broken lance ends into the man's belly. She catches the spear of another hoplite —rips it from his grasp then runs him through with the dull point affixed to the end. With a deft flick of the same spear, she takes another's head, then spins, ramming the spear hard into the belly of a third, then tosses one of her blades at a fourth —the edge plows into the hoplite's skull.
Kicking up a discarded spear, Enyo squares off with an ekdromos. She taunts the man with feints —smile grim and face black with blood. He lunges forward, enraged, but she steps aside and swings the spear. The blade's edge cuts deep into his thigh. The ekdromos stumbles, managing his balance. A flash of silver fills her version when she bends backward, dodging the blow. Enyo leans farther back, planting her hands on the ground and flips back upright.
The ekdromos nears her again, swinging his sword wildly —she parries each blow with the wooden shaft of the spear. Grasping onto his sword arm, she stills his advances and drives the spear point through his foot. She catches the sword as it slips from his grasp and the howl of pain is cut short when she impales his neck with the blade. With a quick twist of the hilt, the head falls from the Spartan's shoulders to the ground.
Scores of men are preparing to stream from the barracks —fully armored. Enyo darts toward the entrance, plucking two heavy battleaxes from the ground. She slams the door closed and braces it with the axes. Pulling two torches from a brazier, she tosses them through the slim stone windows and peers in to see the fire take on the straw bedding. The pounding on the door grows louder —more frantic— as smoke starts to stream from the windows. Bracing the door with the second axe, Enyo steps back —she can feel the heat coming through the stone. Soon after, the screaming begins.
Deimos faces down two strategoi and a hypapist. He swings the Damoklean sword, nearly cleaving the hypapist in two at the waist. Intestines and large pulses of blood fall from the Spartan's midsection before he collapses. Enyo darts forward and slides past one of the strategoi on her knees —slicing the back of his knee before popping up next to Deimos. "How many?" Enyo asks.
"Maybe fourteen," Deimos replies, stepping out of the spear's reach. "I lost count," he adds, panting. He parries the strategos' blow, moving closer, and shoves his sword through the gap between the Spartan's helm and breastplate. Blood runs down the blade and he rips it free in time to see Enyo bring down the second strategos with a swift cut to the throat.
The barracks are burning with Spartans trapped in the flames and everyone around them lies dead in pools of blood. Rustling in one of the bushes draws Enyo's attention —she nudges Deimos and points to the cowering phalangite —a poor excuse for a Spartan. The soldier makes a dash toward one of the walls in disrepair on the cliff-side.
Deimos flips the spear in his hand and lazily throws it at a fleeing soldier. The point punches through the thin armor and into the center of his back —he takes another step then falls face forward, unmoving. None are left alive and the Cult's champions claim another victory.
FAILURE IS ALL but a stranger to her and Deimos, together or apart. They kill as commanded, and rumors of two demigods strengthen and spread over Hellas. Another test comes with individual assignments. Deimos and Enyo had proven themselves capable of completing tasks together, but to be true champions they had to be successful on their own. Her first assignment is assassinating the leader of Melos —and it goes splendidly. It's not just her dual blades that are deadly, but her womanly charms. Men fall easily enough for a pretty face.
Nisos summons her to the Sanctuary. He's a poor replacement for the old Spartiate, Alketor —a wild boar gored Alektor during a hunt, and the tactician and trainer wasn't able to shake the gut wound.
The Cult had tasked Deimos with purging Kythera of its politicians and indoctrinating their replacements with the values and goals of Kosmos. He'd set sail the morn before last and only the gods know when he will return. Though now Nisos waits for her at the head of five masked cultists before the golden pyramid —his face pinched, lips taut as he delivers the scroll with the orders. "An Athenian Polemarch has been causing issues for our scouts in Megaris," one of the masked figures explains —voice too low to belong to a woman, "see he does not interfere again."
Enyo nods, tucking the scroll into her belt and turns on heel. She will depart for the Megarid at once. Before midday, she sits tall and proud astride a black mare named Nyx, riding southeast to pluck another thorn from the Cult's side. A smirk crosses pulls at her lips upon hearing thunder rolling in the distance. This is too easy.