Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty: a bloody feast

THE MYTILENIAN SHARK reclines at the helm of the Eurybia, turning his one-eyed gaze toward the violet sail emblazoned with the head of a gorgon and filled with the sea breeze —debating on whether it is time trade the sails for oars. Pittakos presses his fingers into the wooden arms of the chair as the pirate trireme marked with Xenia's colors turns in the water. The sudden shift puts him at unease. His league was always friendly with the pirates of the seas, even those commanded by Keos' new leader. Across the waves, Pittakos can hear the low rumble of pounding drums as four score oars extend outward from the trireme and dip into the dark water, pushing the vessel forward. The Eurybia is under attack.

"Feel that wind, sister!" Tundareos shouts, mirth lacing the words —it's been too long since he's had a taste of combat at sea. Despite the grim task at hand, Lesya looks to her brother, grinning as he darts back to aid the helmsman —throwing his weight against the great rudder. She takes to the main deck, shoring up the morale of her brother's crew. If they cast the right die, then this would hardly be a fight.

The Ippalkimon cuts through the water, drawing nearer, and from a spot in the rigging, Lesya sees her new target. Dropping to the deck, she plucks several arrows from a barrel. "Aim for the oil jars!" Lesya shouts, laying one of the arrowheads wrapped in oil-soaked linen against the iron brazier. Knocking the flaming arrow, she draws back on the string and sets her sight on the stack of terracotta pots filled with oil and then aims higher before losing it in the wind and over waves. A rain of burning arrows trail behind her own. The Ippalkimon draws nearer to the trireme when the first of the flames take hold of the deck.

"Brace!" Tryphena shouts over the roar of the water and drums. While the others crouch low to the deck awaiting the impact, Lesya holds fast to the rigging —ready to leap into the awaiting din of spears and swords. The two triremes collide, and Lesya leaps into the air, crashing down on the deck of the Eurybia.

A familiar calm overtakes her in the heat of battle. Everything is practiced routine, even as she takes the heads of men and leaves them eviscerated on the blood-slick planks of the deck. Seizing a spear, Lesya drives the point through the back of a felled man attempting to hold his bloody intestines in while crawling away from the carnage, his legs gone below the knee from the edge of her blade. "Enyo!" The Mytilenian Shark shouts over the clash raging on his ship —leveling his sword and raising his shield. "Come to join my crew?" He taunts.

"No–" Lesya spins her twin blades approaching the Cultist, face twisted in determination "–I've come to send you to the depths," she shouts, charging. Pittakos raises his shield in time to block the first blow, but the second comes too quick, and the edge of her blade sinks deep into his thigh. He curses and throws down his shield, stumbling back. Lesya circles him with disdain —a lioness closing in on her prey.

The Cultist straightens, slashing his gilded kopis with reckless abandon, but she dips under his blade —closing in— and grips onto his arm, twisting the appendage until it snaps, falling limp. His blade clatters on the deck, but he will not give up. He blindly punches the air behind him, hoping to land a strike against the disgraced champion. Laughing, Lesya pins his arm behind his back and kicks in his knees —forcing him to the deck. "Mercy!" Pittakos weeps, knowing his fate is sealed.

"You will wander the fields of Hades blind, snake," Lesya whispers at his ear, positioning the tip of her blade just above his eye. His cries and pleas ignored. "Never again to see the light," she hisses, twisting her hand into his greying hair to still his head. Pittakos howls when Lesya presses the point into his eye, blood spilling down his cheek. Chills slither down Tundareos' spine seeing his sister pull her blade free of the Cultist's eye, flicking the ruined eyeball into the waves as the Mytilenian Shark crawls away in a trail of blood —blind. Bending down, she collects the discarded kopis and kicks Pittakos onto his back. With a great heave, she drives the sword through his neck and into the planks below —a captain should go down with his ship.

Timbers creak and groan beneath her feet as she crouches, searching Pittakos' corpse for his artifact and any clues to where other snakes may be hiding. Lesya looks down at the golden triangle in her palm, spattered with blood. Even apart from the pyramid, it is like she can feel its thrumming power. Plucking the scroll from his belt, she rises and takes a running leap back onto her brother's ship as the Aegean claims the Eurybia.

The deckhands and rowers cry out in victory as the sharks come up from the depths for a feast —there had been many riches aboard the Cultist's trireme to claim for themselves and in tribute to Xenia. But Lesya is not concerned with gold and silver. She tucks the bloodied artifact into her belt and unfurls the scroll in hand. Shark, the correspondence reads, the southern Sporades are yours. I am sailing to the waters south of Messenia. Anyone who follows me will be sunk. You are the waves now. Lesya flattens the papyrus and looks at the broken signature and seal. The Hydra.

"Mykonos seems a good place to celebrate this victory," Tryphena notes, resting her hand on Tundareos' shoulder. He nods his agreement, and the Ippalkimon turns in the water, setting out for the island rising from the water on the horizon.

With the winds on their side, they dock before nightfall, and the crew takes to the polis. "Won't you join us, sister?" Tundareos asks, noticing her gaze lingers on the shores of Delos. A dark glint shines in her laurel eyes, and he knows she must go. "Wine will not slake your thirst, I understand–" her brother grips onto her shoulder, meeting her hardened stare "–do what you must."

LESYA PRESSES HER back against the cool stone, unsheathing one of the daggers on her back. Her mark is but feet away —a weak-willed man the Cult used as a pawn in their schemes to feed lies to the Athenians and Spartans. Drawing in a slow breath, she steps forward to strike, but the cold bite of iron against her throat and a familiar hand wrapping around her wrist stops her advance. "I can't let you do that," he whispers at her ear, drawing her further in the shadows.

"Deimos," she hisses, turning to face him. "He's a Cult puppet." Neither of them could deny the truth of the statement. It was by their hand that the man rose to prominence on the Silver Islands. A corrupt puppet put Hellas at as much risk as one directly serving Kosmos —the snakes need to be relieved of their heads.

He shakes his head. "A puppet is nothing without a master," Deimos notes. "He's not worth your time–" Lesya's brows furrow, not understanding why Deimos now stands in her way when he gave her the means to execute several of the Cult's members "–he only does the Cult's bidding to protect his family." Lesya sighs, sheathing her blade. The gods will not have her take another life this day.

Deimos nods toward the shoreline, and Lesya follows. She sits on white sand overlooking the water. In the distance, red and blue sails clash under the full moon. Deimos lowers himself next to her and almost laughs —the gods were cruel to bring them together on a beach. He rests his calloused hand on her thigh, thumb rubbing circles on the constellation of freckles there. "What are you doing here?" Lesya asks, surprised to see him so far from Kleon's side if he was to serve as Athens' executioner.

"Delivering a message," Deimos answers, but Lesya knows it is only a half-truth. He sighs, lips kinking into a fleeting smile. "Looking for you," he admits, turning his tawny-gold gaze to her. Lesya shifts, raising her hand to cup his cheek, and he instinctively leans into her gentle touch. Months have passed since they parted on the docks of Naxos, yet now it is as though they never went separate ways. She brushes her lips against his without hesitation —Deimos responds instantly, arms slipping to her waist before drawing her into his lap. He brushes back her copper hair, fingers ghosting over her cheek when they part. "I know where the Shadow is," he breathes.

"Where?" Lesya asks, leaning back. Eliminating the Shadow would starve Kosmos of new information, leaving them blind —the little birds over Hellas would have no one to report to and disband. She and the Eagle Bearer could travel freely without the Cult knowing their whereabouts.

"Megaris," Deimos tells her. All this time, the Shadow had been hiding in plain sight, operating from the safety of the fortress at the port of Nisaia —a now poorly manned Athenian fort since Sparta claimed the region for the two kings.

"Come with me," she breathes. If the winds and gods favor them, it will take no more than a week to reach the port of Kechries. After a long moment of silence, he agrees to sail with her —if it means spending time with Lesya, then Deimos will bear whatever torments Kosmos attempts to concoct.