"YOU!" MENEXINOS BARKS as Lesya emerges from the shadows. Fear mangles his pinched face, and he swallows hard —it was never a good thing when one of the Cult's champions came for a visit. His shout is loud enough to summon guards, had there been any left alive in the leader's house. One of her blades is painted red and dripping onto the floor. He doesn't have time to reach for his mace before Lesya is there, hand-wound into his oily black hair and the edge of her blade sinking into his throat. With several labored breaths through the spurts of blood, the leader of Megaris is no more. It hadn't taken an army to bring about his demise.
Kassandra and Stentor are crafting a plan to assassinate the leader as a final blow to Athens before meeting their forces on the battlefield. Neither of them expects Lesya to stride into the tent and toss down the severed head of Menexinos at their feet. The Eagle Bearer hides her surprise well, Stentor less so —he looks down his nose at the woman, affronted by her blatant disregard of authority.
"The Athenians are preparing for a night assault," Lesya says, handing Stentor a scroll marked by the seal of Athens. He unrolls the piece of papyrus and quickly skims over the text, finding what she's announced to be true. Kassandra and Lesya glance at one another as Stentor paces around the map table, considering the new information.
He looks between Lesya and Kassandra —one goes to war because she must, the other because she craves the thrill. Something in Lesya's sharp green eyes unnerves him. He's heard stories from some men about a goddess of war and destruction who can tear through even the most trained regiments. A piece of him wonders if this is the warrior of whom they speak. But as much as Stentor hates to admit it, her prowess will be useful. 'Prepare for battle," he declares, and the two sentries move from their post to disseminate the news through the camp. Sparta will take the Megarid from the Athenians today.
THE SHOCK COMBAT ends quickly. Taking the Athenians by surprise had been a decisive move assuring a Spartan victory. Stentor approaches the two women after the battle is done —now he is certain Lesya is the ghost his men spoke of. He's never seen a person look so at ease covered with blood. She fights like Ares, merciless. A light foot soldier approaches, bows his helmed-head, and turns his attention to Kassandra. "The Wolf has requested the presence of the mercenary," he announces.
The general's son bristles at the thought of leaving his pater with a sellsword. "It appears I have other matters to attend to." He lifts his chin and turns toward the decimated Athenian encampment. Lesya nods toward where the Wolf awaits —Spartans are not known for their patience. The Eagle Bearer takes a deep breath and moves up the path to confront her father.
"Don't think for one second I don't know who you are," Stentor growls, approaching Lesya after the misthios is gone. It felt like an insult to fight alongside her after the atrocities she and Deimos had committed against Sparta and its people. His fingers itch to draw the short blade on his belt.
Her smile is grim and arrogant when she shifts to look at him, eyes darting to his hand hovering over the hilt of a dagger. "Then you know what I'm capable of," Lesya sneers. The blood in her veins still runs hot from the battle, spilling the blood of a few more men would make no difference. Stentor's harsh stare falters —he swallows, throat dry, and returns to assess the day's losses and gains.
Lesya is gone when Kassandra descends the cliff in haste. The Eagle Bearer glances around the clearing in the forest but does not stop to search when she cannot find the woman. Shaking her head, she continues back to the Adrestia before the Spartans realize what had happened to their general.
Nikolaos is not on a path to rejoin his men after speaking to his daughter. Lesya intercepts him, making sure there are no lingering eyes. The general meets her steel gaze and recognition flashes across his face but he does not tremble as others do. "You know who I am," she notes.
He lifts his chin, tilting his side to the side to size up the woman that had invoked so much fear in his men's hearts. "My men say you're a ghost–" Nikolaos shakes his head "—but you're just a snake."
"Not anymore," she bites back. Your son saved me. The Wolf can see the pain etched onto her face —she is still so young and had endured so much, just like his own daughter. Lesya looks back over her shoulder, fingers flexing. "The Cult wants you dead," she tells him —no preamble. His rise through the Spartan ranks was nigh legendary after the tragedy that befell his family on Taygetos. His renown made him a target of the Cult and should he return to his polis, they would seek to eliminate the perceived threat. "Do not go back to Sparta." It is a warning.
"Where should I go, then?" Nikolaos asks, skeptical, but he knows if she had been sent to kill him the deed would be done already.
She looks over her shoulder to the north where Boeotia lies then returns her burning gaze to the Spartan general. "To find the honor you should've had that night on Taygetos when both your children died," Lesya spits. Time-and-time again she'd witnessed that stormy night on the slope of Mount Taygetos where his children's lives were forfeit.
Shock takes hold of his stern expression. "Alexios?" Nikolaos breathes. Kassandra survived the fall, could that mean? No, he shakes his head. He had watched Myrrine cry over the broken body of their son before she fled Sparta. The baby was beyond saving, not even Asklepius himself could have spared the child from the Ferryman.
Deimos, her heart seizes at the thought of him and a flash of longing crosses her face. "Alive," she tells him, "but twisted into a weapon." Like me. Lesya does not wait to see Nikolaos' reaction. She turns back to the western coast of the Megarid. Her mind cannot help but stray back to Deimos —she'd committed the lines of his face to memory and the feel of his rough lips against her. We should have stayed on that beach.
Kassandra is already aboard the Adrestia by the time Lesya returns. "Where were you?" The Eagle Bearer asks, not trying to hide the suspicion in her tone though Barnabas and Reza greet her with a smile.
Lesya flips one of the bloodstained blades in her hand and kisses the worn leather-wrapped hilt. "Couldn't leave it behind," she says, smiling. It's a lie for the moment, she would have gone back if one of them had been lost. Deimos had been the one to give her the dual blades shortly after their final trail to become champion. Since then, Lesya had not parted with them.
She joins Barnabas and Kassandra at the helm as the rowers begin to push away from the wharf. "We go to Phokis," Kass announces, crossing her arms, "Elpenor said he'd meet me there. He owes me money and an explanation." Lesya masks her surprise at the mention of Elpenor. Kassandra had not mentioned the merchant before, but now Lesya understands. This had all been part of a scheme to get ride of Nikolaos and begin hunting for the bloodline.
Ikaros sweeps down from the sky with a loud cry and settles upon Kassandra's outstretched arm. The eagle's piercing stare makes it seem as if he can see every lie and atrocity Lesya has ever committed. Frowning, she takes her leave of the helm and scales curved bow-post sitting above the gilded ram, looking off over the water as the sun begins to sink low in the sky.
"DEIMOS!" ENYO SHOUTS but he does not hear her, nor does he see the brute approaching him from behind —heavy ax lifted above his head. Ramming one of her blades through an Athenian's thigh, she spins and throws the same blade as hard as she can. It finds its mark deep in the side of the brute and he collapses backward. Deimos dispatches the last of the leader's guards with a tight slash across the throat. "I had this under control," she hisses, pulling her blade free with a soft squelch. The leader had been wet clay in her hands, a few moments longer and the information would have been hers for the taking. "We were supposed to use stealth," Enyo reminds him, anger has contorted her expression.
"And he wasn't supposed to touch you," Deimos growls, gripping onto her arm —dark eyes burning into hers. Enyo turns, entering the leader's villa, this time to purge it of riches. The Cult would put the money and jewels to work fanning the flames of war.
The journey back to Phokis had not taken long from Achaia. They each sit an offering of gold before the gathered cultist's feet. "All of Hellas knows what you did!" One of them bellows. Lesya lifts her head and sees it is the only cultist who looks to be a warrior himself. He stands a head taller than Deimos, is wider, and wields a flat mace. "Next time you'll listen when we tell you to go unseen!" He roars, rearing back to strike Enyo —she's closest to him.
Deimos leaps to his feet and stops the mace mid-swing. "Do not touch her," he spits, ripping the mace from the brute's grasp and breaking the thick wooden lance over his knee. Quiet gasps and whispers undulate through the massive chamber. The Monger's face is hidden behind an ivory mask weeping red, but the anger in his soulless eyes is evident. Enyo looks up at Deimos, heart pounding in her ears.
"This was my doing," he says, though his tone is no less dangerous. Several guardians force him to his knees before a lit brazier and strip away the gold-and-white breastplate, tearing open one side of his dark exomis. Deimos' fingers dig into his knees when the hot iron presses across his shoulder blade. He will not give them the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. The scent of burning flesh tickles Enyo's nose as two guardians hold tight to her arms. It was more painful to watch them hurt Deimos than anything they had ever done to her. She wants to scream for them to stop, but that will only make it worse. A cultist with a weak stomach gags then retches —spilling his stomach over the floor.
"You fool," Enyo growls, breaking open an aloe leaf and squeezing the clear sap onto the brand. He flinches when she begins spreading the sap, glancing over his shoulder to see her expression is a mix of anger and deep concentration. Catching his tawny-gold gaze, Enyo purses her lips. "Don't ever do that again," she tells him, bottom lips trembling.
He shifts, lifting a rough hand to her cheek. "It was my fault," Deimos admits, his eyes locking onto hers. Her laurel eyes are as soft as the spring grass. It didn't matter if it was his fault or not, he'd bear all her punishments. Enyo leans into his hand, turning her head to place a soft kiss in the center of his palm. Deimos watches in a trace that is only broken when she leans forward, pressing her lips against his.
Lesya wakes with a faint smile, despite the grim memory. Sitting up, she can make out the dark shape of mountains drawing close and the glow of Kirrha's harbor —filled with ships. She has not been back to Phokis since fleeing for her life and now the future is more uncertain than ever.