Kryptic ↟ Deimos

eleven: unearthing the truth

HE RECOGNIZES THE strength and brutality of the kills at once. When paid properly, mercenaries were as silent and clean as assassins, but these men were not slaughtered with discretion. Elpenor rolls one of the Cult guardians over with his foot —mindful not to get blood on his sandals or robes— and grimaces. A dagger is thrust through the metal helmet into bone and entrails bulge from a deep incision across another man's torso.

Branches above him rustle, but there is no wind. He swallows and looks up into the olive tree. She perches on a sturdy limb —ornate armor replaced by a simple grey leather and linothorax breastplate with mismatched greaves. "Enyo?" Elpenor enquires. Lesya drops to a lower branch then leaps to the ground, landing in a graceful crouch before straightening. "You're supposed to be dead," he tells her with a knowing smile.

"Sorry to disappoint," she remarks, glancing at the corpse near Elpenor's feet. Flies are already circling the dead —soon they will be a feast for crows. Lesya meets his hospitable gaze. Despite his transgressions and role in stoking the flames of war between Athens and Sparta, Elpenor had always been kind to her, ever since she was a scrawny little girl. His kindness will soon be at an end with the Eagle Bearer hunting him.

"You should return," he utters, voice dropping to a low whisper, "we cannot rein him in. He grows more unpredictable." Power and chaos in one body. Everything the Cult needs and everything it stands against is how they described Deimos. A weapon to be used and discarded —just like her. Lesya's jaw clenches. She knows the Cult will try to put him down in time. The thought makes her heart seize. "He cares for you, Enyo," Elpenor notes. If he didn't care, Deimos would not have endured the tortures to keep her safe after the others learned she'd gone.

She looks at one of the corpses and reaches down, pulling her blade from the man's chest. "She's hunting for you," Lesya announces. Elpenor had been the only one to ever show compassion, to dare show the champions an ounce of kindness. For all he'd done, a warning of the storm coming only seemed fair.

The merchant nods. He'd offered Kassandra a place among their ranks. She could have stood at her brother's side. "I know," Elpenor remarks, drawing in a slow breath. "We will not see each other again in this life, Lesya." Her head snaps up at the use of her name. "Tell the Eagle Bearer I am waiting."

HE'S BENT OVER a table, grinding and bundling herbs when she approaches, sandals crunching on the loose gravel. Besides Elpenor, the healer is the only other person she can think of ask about Deimos. "Lykaon?"

He recognizes the voice, but there is something different about it —it's softer. Lykaon sets down his pestle and shifts his attention to her. She does not wear the Cult's armor anymore and the circles that'd once ringed her laurel eyes are gone. Thinking as a physician, this is the healthiest she's looked since he'd begun tending the champions' wounds, but he still knows who she is and what she is capable of. "Enyo," Lykaon utters, voice shaking.

"I'm not here to hurt you," she tells him, lips kinking into a slight smile. Lykaon relaxes and motions her closer to his workstation. She leans her hip against the table and crosses her arms. "I wanted to ask after Deimos," she admits. "How is he?" The fondness in her voice betrays her stoic expression.

Lykaon's dark brows furrow but then he begins to understand. Enyo's absence and the weeping cuts on Deimos' chest were no coincidence. It had to be close to a year since he'd dressed those wounds. The physician sprinkles a dark herb into the poultice. "Mending, the last I saw," he notes and notices her brows furrow in worry. "Nothing severe," the physician assures her. It was only a simple set of stitches and Deimos always healed extraordinarily fast compared to other men.

She nods her thanks for the small amount of solace and turns to leave before unwanted eyes see them conversing —she refused to be responsible for the physician's demise. "Wait," Lykaon announces, arms darting forward and hand wrapping loosely around her arm. "I did overhear there would be a meeting tonight, though." Lesya suppresses a smile and nods her thanks, quickly leaving the small infirmary in the Chora of Delphi.

LESYA DARTS FORWARD from the underbrush and drives her sword through one of the scion's feet and grips onto either side of the dark steel helmet when they fall forward —starting to twist the scion's head to the right, then a little bit further. By the time the scion sees her face and starts to scream out it is too late. She twists until there's a crack. The head snaps around to face backward then loosely rolls back to the front before lolling to the side —neck hanging at a sickening angle with a shard of vertebrae poking at the underside of the skin. The body flops to the stone floor when Lesya steps aside. 

Torches crackle and spit and every so often she passes chambers hewn from the bedrock. Some bear beds or furniture, but all are empty —even the one that had once been her quarters as a child. Until, from the doorway of one just ahead, a puff of steam spits out, along with a scream that twists her stomach into a tight knot. She slows. A brute of a Cultist is in there, his breathing heavy behind his mask, his shoulders bulging from his sleeveless robe and his arms thick with black, curly hairs. In one meaty hand, he holds a poker over a crackling brazier until it glows white at the tip. The Monger. Before him is a withered, broken wretch tied to a vertical frame, head hanging forward, a patter of fluid dripping from his hidden face. Enyo's back screams and aches at the memory of being strung up and whipped.

"We hired you to kill Phidias of Athens," drawls the masked brute. "We paid you well. You botched your work and nearly ended up in the stinking Athenian jail for it. Well, you would have been better off in there, you fool," he said, grabbing the tied man's hair and yanking his head back to reveal a face half-ruined. The right side a mess of bloody runnels, the eye socket a gaping black hole. The brute lifts the poker and moves the white tip toward the man's remaining eye. The man's eye bulges and darts as if trying to escape his head, but there is no escape. No one escapes the Monger's punishment, not even the Cult's beloved champion. With a sizzle and a stink of charring flesh and then a pop, the eye bursts in a splash of white liquid and blood that sprays across the room.

The armor fits her well, and none pay her a second thought as she joins the ranks of guardians keeping vigil at the entrance of the main chamber. The last cultist to arrive walks with a timid stride, the end of a dark brown braid peeking out from the black robes and mask. Kassandra. Lesya can hear the echoes of the conversations —they search for the mother of the Eagle Bearer, believing Nikolaos to be dead but everything goes still and quiet when he enters. 

"There is a traitor in our midst," he snarls. Lesya's heart leaps at the sound of his voice, for so long she'd only been able to hear the deep rasping in her dreams. "I count forty-two here, yet how can that be when one of our numbers lies dead in Kirrha?" He lifts a severed head and tosses it across the floor. Elpenor. Lesya peers into the chamber, unable to tell which of the masked figures is Kassandra. Deimos' gold-and-white armor makes him a beacon in the darkness. "Who is it?" he rages, voice like a war drum, pacing like a caged animal. "Remove your masks!" He commands.

"That is not our way, Deimos," one Cultist refutes. The Cult had functioned under anonymity since its founding. It worked better that way.

He turns his gaze to the side and breathes heavily through his nose. "Very well," the champion notes —the calm of his voice unnerves most. "The artifact will expose them. Everyone will be tested." The Cultists shuffle back as Deimos lumbers down the steps and into the circle, afraid even if they have nothing to hide. "You," he snarls, looking at Kassandra —already by the pyramid— up and down.

Deimos places his hand on the side of the artifact, and Kassandra does the same. Her hand shoots up from the pyramid with a gasp. The Eagle Bearer stares at Deimos as the memory faded. He's staring back, tawny-gold eyes as wide as her own. There's no mistaking it. Lesya steps forward, fully looking into the chamber. "Who are you?" He mouths, the question barely above a whisper. He shakes his head in disbelief, lips barely moving. Kassandra? "Go!" He shouts. Kassandra takes a step back, legs numb.

The champion points to another masked figure. "You!" With a roar, he grabs the back of the Cultist's head and rams the masked face into the point of the pyramid. There's a thick clunk as the mask splits and the body slumps. Deimos stands over the unmoving Cultist, pummeling the crumpled mask and face with his fist over-and-over. Some of the other Cultists step back, wailing, but a handful surge forward, stopping shy of intervening. "The traitor is dead!" He proclaims, chest heaving.

The Eagle Bearer backs away —stumbling like a stunned deer, she speeds back to the cave's entrance. Lesya slips away from her post, following the misthios even though her heart is telling her to stay and confront Deimos.