A BIREME FLANKS the Adrestia slowing the escape from a three-masted pirate war galley quickly approaching. Confrontation is inevitable and the crew is already exhausted. It had been seven days since they parted Korinth and still another two days lay ahead before reaching Keos. The seas had not been kind. "We can't shake them, Kassandra!" Barnabas shouts, adding his weight to help Reza push against the rudder in an attempt to veer off to the left.
The Eagle Bearer grips onto the railing at the helm, swaying with the unsteady seas and collisions with the accosting bireme —she is the commander of the vessel but does not feel it now. This is only her second true naval battle. Lesya scales the rigging. "Keleustes!" She calls with the rage of Ares. "Oars out and heave left!" Tens of oars extend out and down into the water, pushing them forward and to the left with Barnabas and Reza at the rudder. The fast, rhythmic beat of the auletes' drum resonates in her chest, echoing the beat of her heart. Slowly, then with a great burst, the Adrestia pulls away from the bireme —granting an opening to strike.
"Bow!" She shouts, jumping from the rigging and plucking several arrows from a barrel next to the brazier trough. Philoetios throws an olive bow to her at the same time she catches it, Lesya turns to the side —a lucky spear throw cutting through the air in front of her and splashing into the water. The cloth-wrapped arrow catches flames once she touches the oil-soaked rag to the lit brazier. Drawing back the nocked arrow, she shoots for the dark sail. Fire catches and spreads out in all directions, quickly engulfing the flax sail. Lighting another arrow, she eyes a stack of clay jars at the stern —filled with oil— and takes aim though it appears she is firing into the sun.
A moment passes where everyone aboard holds their breath, losing track of the flaming arrow against the sky. A torrent of flame and screams erupts —the arrow had found its mark. Cries of victory erupt across the deck, but the fight is not over, and the drums of the war galley make that clear. The three-masted ship bears black sails neither Lesya nor Kassandra have seen before, but Barnabas recognizes the rearing, red ram with a serpent tongue as the colors of Pirate Island. A ship under the command of Xenia —the pirate Kassandra seeks an audience with.
Both triremes are on a path of collision. Impact is unavoidable. "Brace!" Barnabas cries. Deckhands lower into a crouch, gripping onto the rope running the length of the deck. The Adrestia rocks to the side —splinters of wood exploding into the air. Before the ship steadies itself, Lesya is charging —shouting, she throws herself into the air, over the churning abyss, and onto the war galley, duel blades drawn.
Rising, she thrusts one blade up through a man's jaw as he approaches —blood sluices down the fuller, over her hand— and throws the other though her focus is on the captain. It finds an opening in the eye-sight of a bronze helmet and the wearer tumbles back. Lesya moves in a fury of copper hair and blood. Wrenching a spear free from the belly of a corpse with a trail of entrails, she singles out the lone deckhand standing near the captain and hurls it toward the man. The spear hammers into his chest —blood and bile gurgling from his mouth before collapsing. Behind her, she can hear Kassandra fighting too.
The captain levels his kopis, not giving her the opportunity to strike first. She blocks the blow from the captain and kicks him in the gut, sending him reeling back into the steps leading to the kybernetes' chair. He looks up as she approaches and the color drains from his face —the pirate had only known one person in all of Hellas to have copper hair and laurel eyes. Lesya kicks the sword from his hand and pins the captain in place with her foot, the point of her blade pressing into his throat. He swallows hard and weighs what could be his last words carefully. "Lesya?" The captain asks, his voice hardly a whisper.
Lesya retracts her blade and staggers back as though she's taken a severe blow to the stomach. "Tundareos," she breathes, placing the bright blue eyes and sandy brown hair from the boy she had once known to the man standing before her. Tundareos' smile grows. He left Athens as a boy of eleven —a stowaway on a merchant vessel— intent on finding his sister. After years of searching, the gods saw fit to bring them together alas.
He lifts his hand to her cheek, laughing. "You–" Tundareos skims over her freckled face, still in disbelief "–you're alive." She nods. The gods had taught her to survive, though it had come at a cost. Her brother engulfs her in his arms, holding her tight and exultant to know his own hardships had not been in vain. Lesya loosely clutches the back of his poor-fitting linothorax armor.
Stepping back, Tundareos takes in the destruction and blood, letting out a deep sigh that dampens his spirits —he had fought alongside many of the fallen for years. "Xenia won't be happy to hear she's lost more men." The seas had become more treacherous since the war began between Sparta and Athens, even for pirates.
Kassandra overhears the mention of the pirate commander and approaches. "You know Xenia?" The misthios asks, returning the broken spear of Leonidas to the sheath on her quiver. "Kassandra seeks an audience with her," Lesya adds, "she's in the market for information."
Tundareos looks over the Eagle Bearer then back to his sister. "I can vouch for you," he decides, "this can just be a misunderstanding." After all, neither party had known the other before the collision. Lesya's lips kink into a smile and Kass lets out a slow breath of relief.
The war galley is called the Ippalkimon and is one of the finest ships under Xenia's command. Now there are not enough men to bring the trireme back to port. Lesya and Tundareos secure several long ropes together, tying them to the stern of the Adrestia and bow of the Ippalkimon. They will see Tundareos and what remains of his crew back to Keos safely, though towing the pirate trireme will slow their journey by several days.
ONE OF THE Cultists throws down an iron poker—cold and bent. His face set in a grim line behind the painted ivory mask. Deimos had delivered word of the brute's failure in Korinth. His sister and Lesya had done their damage and fled before he arrived. "The Monger failed," he tells the gathering, a wave of grumbling displeasure spreads through them. None realize Deimos listens in the labyrinth of tunnels above the great bronze serpent.
All others in the dark chamber stare at the iron rod, most are in a state of incredulity. "He was the strongest of us," one dares speak. "The strongest of arm, perhaps," another muses, "but not of mind." The Monger was not a skilled tactician or orator, relying on brute strength and fear to keep Korinthia under his yoke for so long. With his death, the Cult had lost sway over the land and people that would not be easily reclaimed.
"Do you forget we have another," a third figure says with a soft, feminine voice, "fiercer than the Monger, with sharp wits?" She speaks of Deimos —Chrysis' beloved champion and their greatest weapon. It had been far too long since they put him to use.
The first to speak answers in a low, grating voice. "Deimos is not truly one of us though, is he?" The grandson of Leonidas would never be a true member of their ranks for the blood flowing through his veins. There is a reason he could use the artifact and harness the full power of the Damoklean sword —they raised him to believe himself a demigod, a lie planted from a seed of truth. "He is unpredictable," the Cultist spits, "like a rabid dog as Kleon said before."
"Exactly," says the soft-spoken Cultist, "this is our opportunity to use him to the greatest effect. Or replace him with another." There was always the sister —if she were to be captured, they could persuade her to see the light of Kosmos and embrace order. "Rumors say she will head to Athens to seek the wisdom of Perikles and Aspasia. Though there's also whispers she sails for Keos." Nyx casts a wide shadow across Hellas, few things slip past the Sage of Komos' eyes.
"Athens?" says another, uncertain as the rest fall silent —the last time Deimos was in Athens they lost Leandros. It had taken weeks to regain what they had lost with his demise.
Nyx nods. "Send him to Athens," she commends. There were rumors of sickness spreading in the city too. It was likely they would not find another opportunity like this. "Perikles has been a thorn in our foot for too long. Kassandra cannot defeat him." The others rumbled their agreements in unison. "Nobody can." But Nyx has forgotten about Deimos' only weakness, one that is just as ferocious as him in battle.
A twisted Cultist with a hunchback takes a step forward. "What about her?" the airy voice queries. He had not forgotten about Enyo. "She is the only one who can best him and she sails with the sister."
Grumbles pass through the gathering. Kleon steps forward —his twisted smile hidden behind the grinning, weeping mask. "He will not fight her, though." He knows Deimos and Enyo will do whatever it takes to protect one another, even now. "The orders will be delivered. Our champion will sail for Athens." None dare object.
Four of the Cultists leave the chamber and remaining masked figures circle the golden artifact and speak quietly amongst one another. The lone lamp in the center casting their shadows on the chamber walls —titanic, crooked, inhuman. "Deimos failed again in Korinth," one speaks —so low that Deimos can hardly hear them from his position above. "He's served his purpose. He is strong, yes, but he thrashes like a bull now that she is gone." There is a pause as all but one of the figures nods. "You think he will stay in Athens?" He will seek her out again, as he did in Korinth but that is not spoken aloud.
"He is still valuable to us," another snaps. "He will return to our heel when we call him and gods willing, he will bring Enyo and his sister to us." With Enyo back at Deimos' side and the sister under their control too, no one would stand in their way. Footsteps echo through the cave. The Cultists look up. Their masks are already locked in unsettling grins, but behind them, each of the Cultists mimics the expression of their masks as the old messenger comes in and slides to one knee —panting.