ANTHOUSA GLANCES AROUND the Spring of Peirene with a caution. It is not only the Monger's spies she must watch for, but prying eyes belonging to Kosmos as well. Korinth is a gold mine of information from across Hellas and among the prime brokers are the city's famed hetaerae. Anthousa has seen too many of her girls fall, though, and stopping the Monger was only the one part of ridding Korinthia of corruption.
Lesya knows what must be done, even if Kassandra is hesitant about becoming too involved with Korinthian affairs when the Cult still hunts her mother. "We have to put out their eyes!" she hisses and Anthousa nods her agreement. Cutting off the supply line of information would leave the Cult blind and vulnerable. It would take years for them to reestablish the same scale of network for trading secrets.
The Eagle Bearer will hear no more from the hetaera, instead, she turns from the spring and to the city —intent on finding a weakness in the defenses around the Monger's warehouse. "Two of my girls are missing," Anthousa says quietly, already fearing the worst. "We've heard rumors of where they are in the city, though." The rumors speak of a vile and sadistic place, one where few leave with their lives. Lesya looks over her shoulder —Kassandra is already gone.
"Tell me," she starts, knowing she will enjoy thwarting the Monger's plans. "I'll see them to safety." Finding the Abron House north of the Temple of Apollo is easy enough. Deciding whether to use stealth to her advantage or create a bloodbath is less so. The home is heavily guarded —too many to take at once when she can hear strangled cries coming from within the villa.
Dropping down between a line of flowering hedges, Lesya prowls along in the shadows. Ahead is a guard, his armored shadow visible over the hedge-line. Pausing behind the armed guard, she springs to her feet —covering his mouth and thrusting one of her blades into his neck before dragging the corpse back into the thick foliage.
Another shout leads her deeper into the compound, sliding along walls and shadows —quickly dispatching those standing in her path. By the time she reaches the source of the muffled shouts and screams, a trail of blood and bodies lie in her wake. They never saw her coming. Never stood a chance.
The man looming over the two hetaerae brandishes a small whip with a dozen leather tails. Their faces are bloody, arms covered with purple welts. He does not notice the approaching shadow until it is too late. One of the girls screams when she sees the blood-slicked blade emerge from their tormentor's chest. He drops the whip, sliding to his knees —gasping for air and struggling to stem the blood sluicing down his front. Pitiful wheezing turns silent when Lesya sheathes the bloody blade, gripping both sides of his head and twisting until there is a crack and pop. The Monger's puppet falls forward, dead.
Kneeling between the young girls, Lesya slices the ropes on their wrists and ankles. "Can you both stand?" Both girls nod. "Walk?" Another nod. If it meant freedom, they would run. They both stand, steadying each other. "Here–" Lesya presses two short knives into their trembling hands —taken from the torturer's corpse. There are still guards patrolling the property and only one exit from the Abron House. "You both need to run, but just in case, stick them in the soft bits," she tells the girls while reaching behind her to draw the second blade on her back.
She leads the way, past the destruction and devastation, but gathered in the courtyard are several of the guards —standing over a corpse of their brethren. Lesya lurches into battle without hesitation, carving a narrow path to freedom, but the girls do not take the opportunity. Growling, she grips onto the spear lance of one brute and thrusts it forward into the neck of another. With a tight spin and she takes another's head.
Lesya leaps over to cut the flank of one guard who is locked in combat with the nearest girl, then spins to chop clean through the shin of another. "Go," she shouts at the girls, stabbing a finger toward the Temple of Aphrodite. "Get back to Anthousa." The girls blink through tears, nodding and scrambling away, mouthing words of gratitude. She throws one of her blades into the back of the brute attempting to pursue them.
The distraction and opening earn her a bloody lip and nose. Spitting, she picks up both her blades and glances around at the six thugs encircling her, laughing. I've missed this she thinks before charging toward one of the brutes with a feral cry —dodging his blow and slicing a deep line up his back. Finally, a challenge.
KASSANDRA IGNORES THE wail of pain when Lesya bashes the last of the Monger's men's head in against the corner of a wooden crate —a splatter of blood and brain erupting. Her attention remains on Brasidas, a Spartan General who had met them in the blazing warehouse, though he is taken by the display of brutality and how familiar it feels. Shaking his head, Brasidas returns his focus to the Eagle Bearer and the discussion of how the Monger should be dealt with. "Do this discretely," the Spartan beseeches.
The clatter of iron on stone draws both their attention back to the crackling embers and billowing smoke. Lesya cracks her knuckles, appearing next to the pair of Spartans. Her face is contorted with ire —the Monger does not deserve a quick death. "The Monger should be strung up for all Korinth to see," she grits out, "he deserves to suffer for all the pain he's caused." If she had her way, Lesya would flay him alive —the same torture he used on hetaera who would not speak against Anthousa.
"Lesya," Kassandra warns, her voice low —dangerous even. When her gaze returns to Brasidas, she is surprised to see a pallor has washed over his face and now there is deep-seated hatred in his dark eyes. "I know you," he starts, fingers flexing at the thought of brandishing his spear. "You're one of the ghosts my men speak of." He has witnessed firsthand the carnage left behind when Dread and Destruction strike. "You've killed dozens of Spartans!" The general spits, venomous.
Her laugh is derisive. "Have I?" Lesya mocks. "I thought it was hundreds by now."
Brasidas comes to close to losing his composure —the pallor on his cheeks is gone, replaced by Spartan red. Kassandra's head snaps in Lesya's direction, her face pinched with anger. "Leave," the Eagle Bearer hisses from behind clenched teeth.
Seething, Lesya walks away from the pair and is stopped by a ragged-looking boy —skinny and pale. "He says," the boy starts, voice trembling, "come meet him in the Sacred Cave under the temple to end it."
THE DENIZENS OF Korinthia wake to a dark pall of smoke. They emerge from their homes, nervous and shy, then confused when they hear the spreading rumors: the dockside warehouse had burned to the ground in the night. More, all have been summoned to the theater that day —which had been closed ever since the Monger took the reins of the city. Slowly, they began trusting the heralds who repeat the summons. By noon, the theater is filled, with more on the nearby rooftops and higher streets, peering at the stage.
The Spartan General left soon after the warehouse was set alight —returning to Sparta to carry the news to the two kings. When you do this, Kassandra he had said, throw the Monger's bones into the water and let that be the end. But Lesya would not let it end like that. She tied a rope around the brute's ankles, parading his corpse through the streets to the theater.
An orator strolls across the stage, telling all the city is once again free. Voices rise in confusion and disbelief, many looking around to be sure that this is not a ruse by the brute to weed out dissenters. Kassandra watches from the stage as Lesya appears at the top of the steps splitting the theater in two, beginning a slow descent for the people to see.
A collective and horrified intake of thousands of breaths brought silence as she strode forward, pulling a mangled corpse —both covered in blood. Behind her, Anthousa follows with her head high despite her pleas for a public execution. Lesya drags the Monger onto the stage and throws the rope over the lintel above her. With a great heave, she hoists the corpse up and secures the rope around one of the timber frames. The brute sways for a time, then slows, hanging at a standstill —drops of blackened blood still dripping from his mouth and wounds.
Masses surge into wails of joy as Anthousa takes the stage, repeating what the orator had already proclaimed, but coming from her honeyed voice somehow feels different. Kassandra glances at Lesya —shocked to find a cruel, maniacal smile twisting her lips, but the hetaera moves to her side, leaning in. "Your mother sailed from here on the Siren Song," said Anthousa over the crowd, "she traveled to the Cyclades."
STORM CLOUDS GATHER over the city, turning the seas inhospitable. Ikaros had only just returned before the downpour began, bearing news from Barnabas. Even with the rough storm, the Adrestia is still set to arrive before the day's end. Though now the Eagle Bearer and Lesya sit atop Anthousa's home. All Korinthia is indebted to them, it was the least the hetaera could offer —shelter, a warm meal, and a bath. Kassandra still wears her worn leathers, but Lesya's blood-soaked chiton had been taken to wash and is replaced by a thin lilac peplos. The misthios cannot help but notice it is a good color for Lesya's laurel eyes and copper hair.
Events from the night and morning replay in Kassandra's head —reminding her of Enyo and the destruction and death she wrought upon the Monger and his men. But now, sitting across from a low brazier, she believes Lesya looks tired and broken. Killing Chrysis and desecrating the Monger's corpse had brought peace for only a few moments until it faded back to hatred and longing. "What did they do to you?" She dares ask. The scars upon her flesh speak of the horrors even if they do not tell the complete story.
Lesya laughs, a low, dark rumbling from deep in her throat as she recalls every horrid thing the Cult had ever done. "What didn't they do?" She counters. A moment passes, the bitterness and anger consuming her turn to pain. She wants to cry and scream, but Enyo will not let her. "Have you ever dreamt of a simple life, Kassandra?" The Eagle Bearer hesitates but gives a slow nod —she has thought of one many times and how different things may have been if not for that night on Taygetos.
"A small home in the countryside or by the sea." Lesya muses, sadness in her voice and a distant look in her eyes. "Children laughing. Teaching them how to hunt and fish." Kassandra nods again. "It was my dream too. Ever since I was a little girl." Kalanthe always said she would make a good mother one day, but that had been before the Cult sunk their talons into her, twisting and molding —creating a weapon.
"Even after my father gave me to the Cult, I held onto a shred of hope that one day I could have a simple life." The closest she's come to the dream again had been that night with Deimos on the beach. She squeezes her laurel eyes shut. We should have stayed on that beach she tells herself over and over, a single tear running down her cheek. "They took that dream from me," Lesya grits out, nails digging into her palms. And now I will take life from them.
Kassandra's dark eyes widen upon the realization of what had been done. The Eagle Bearer glances at her own hands, feeling a wave of sympathy for the disgraced champion. She knew the Cult was cruel, but that, she could not begin to imagine the pain. Lesya watches Kass' expression shift, her frown turns to rage in a heartbeat. "I don't want your pity, misthios," she spits.
Lightning flashes across the dark sky. Kassandra rises, moving toward the staircase leading back down to the night's festivities. She looks over her shoulder before descending. "We sail at dawn," she announces. Kassandra cannot be sure if she will see Lesya aboard the Adrestia come the morn.