"I'VE COME TO fight," Lesya announces, standing before the gates of the arena. She nor Deimos had ever ventured to the fighting pits, but there are many among the Cult who had —all fodder for the Beast of Sparta. Today, his reign would end by her hand.
"For glory or for riches?" The old gatekeeper asks. No one came to the arena in Pephka seeking an honorable death anymore —the age of heroes is gone. The crowd may cheer and sing praises of the champions, but the walls of the arena no longer shook as they once did when contenders stepped onto the sands.
"So long as the crowd sees blood spilled, why does it matter?" Lesya refutes, impatient. The gatekeeper sighs. He has no doubt the woman before him is a warrior. The whispers of demigods walking amongst the realm of men have traveled on the winds. Lesya is not here to become a Hero of the Arena, but Skoura thinks she has the makings, even if it is vengeance burning in her laurel eyes. "I am here for Belos," she announces, and she will not leave until he is slain —body lying cold in the sands of the arena.
But the Beast of Sparta is only one of the champions, and scores of men lay between the twin blades on Lesya's back and Belos himself. Skoura motions around to the moments celebrating the champions, and the scores of defected soldiers and mercenaries come to try their luck. "Then you must carve your way through the other contenders to see the ranks of our champions," he says. My blades are ready, old man, Lesya thinks, tired of the conversation —she has come for blood, for vengeance, not for conversation. Skoura motions above, and the gates to the area begin to swing open. "Your name, fighter?" He asks.
"Enyo," Lesya answers, no hesitation —the name which will strike fear into the heart of all those who knew of the Cult of Kosmos.
SHE BRACES HER weight against one of the wooden pillars supporting the netting above the arena floor —forehead slick with sweat against her forearm, chest heaving with exertion. The crowd still shouts and cheers from above, and among them, she finds her brothers. They do not hail her as the others do. Their faces are a solemn mask of concern that one could almost mistake for pity.
Scattered around the sands are no less than twenty-five corpses. There were no more left to challenge her except for Belos himself. Straightening, she steps back —staggering, finally feeling pain blossom in her thigh. There's a bloody cut just below the tassels of her dark leather belt. Lesya goes to the nearest corpse, ripping a long strip of linen from the man's chiton, and binds the wound, quickly.
Deep from the labyrinth of the pits comes the booming echo of a war drum —impending doom and dread. She paces the sands like a caged beast kicked one too many times.
The drums grow louder as the iron gate at the far end of the arena lifts. Belos strides forth with his massive shield and labrys held aloft. From behind him stride a dozen more men wielding shields and spears, maces, and swords. Whispers made their way through the arena that the disgraced champion of the Cult of Kosmos had come to fight —Belos will not chance losing to her. "You've come to die, whore?" He bellows, knocking the broad head of his labrys against the bronze shield —the crowd erupts in roaring cheers.
The vanguard encircles her, weapons leveled and shields raised. She curses Belos for his cowardice. That he hides behind weaker men and cannot face her alone. Lesya stands her ground at the center, leaving one blade sheathed on her back, daring one of the Spartiates to make the first move. A heartbeat passes before one of them acts, thrusting the end of his spear forward. She catches the wooden lance and rips it free, breaking it over her knee, and spins —ducking under the man's shield. He lets out a wail of pain when she thrusts the splintered end of the lance into his chest. His cry is silenced by a quick cut to the throat and a warm spray of blood.
Another tries the impale her with a dull spear, but she rolls forward, under the blow, and springs back to her feet, driving the other half of the broken spear into his thigh and her own blade upward through the chinstrap of his helm. "He's cheating!" Timotheus grits out, leaning onto the wooden and rope railing, looking down into the arena. No other champion fought with a host of men to protect them. "We have to help her!"
"We can't," Tundareos reminds him, unable to tear his gaze away from his sister. "The rules," he utters, "it would forfeit her life." Lesya hammers her blade into the man's ribs, cracking through his exomis, skin, gristle, and bone. Pressing deeper as blood sluices from the gash and over her hands. She rips the blade back, and he falls in paroxysms of agony, unable to breathe with the blood filling his lungs.
Two more lunges at her, and one scores her breastbone through the linen of her chiton with a swipe of his spear, the other nearly crushing her head with a heavy iron mace. Too many, Lesya curses, knowing she grows slower with each blow absorbed and strike dealt. And Belos, the Beast of Sparta himself, weighs the moment to strike the killing blow. Kosmos will reward him handsomely for bringing Enyo's head back to Delphi. Lesya scrambles backward, knees knocking against one of the weapons racks.
The iron banded wood is rough and splintering under her fingers, but she surrenders her blades and hefts up the shield, stooping low as the iron mace swings above. Before the man can turn to swing again, Lesya smashes his face with the iron boss —breaking his nose, forcing the mace from his hands. Discarding the shield, she rushes to recover the mace and heaves the heavy weapon high above her head before chopping downward with a harsh scream. Blood spatters when the flanges bite into flesh and bone. The man crumbles instantly, his skull split wide open, and the crowd grows louder still —drunk at the sight of blood.
Belos remains behind her bidding his time, leaning on the heel of his great two-handed labrys. She hears the whistle of the sword cutting through the air and ducks, twisting out of the way, recovering a discarded spear. A swift cut to the backs of his knees and the Spartan falls, unable to stand again. His misery ends as Lesya thrusts the spear through his throat, pinning him upright with blood gurgling from his gaping mouth. The last of the vanguard protecting their champion, but then Belos is upon her without mercy.
Lesya steps back and out of the sweeping arc of his axe, feet sliding on the slick sand. Regaining her balance is almost impossible. As quickly as she evades one blow, the next comes. Belos roars, aggravated, and throws aside his shield, using both hands on the labrys. She dances around him, always out of reach, but then he charges forward like a raging bull and pins her against the wall of the arena with the wooden lance pressed into her throat.
The Beast snarls, pressing harder and pushing upward, the tips of her toes leaving the ground. For the briefest of moments, Lesya begins to panic —she has never met a foe she could not overcome— but Belos will not claim her.
Kicking out, her foot finds purchase on his bent knee, and the leverage is enough for her to reach back and unsheathe the blade on her back. He tries to pull it from her grasp, but his grip falters, and Lesya drives the blade into his shoulder with a harrowing scream. Belos drops his labrys, and Lesya darts around him, picking up a dulled sword from one of his defenders as he pulls out the blade and throws it down, recovering his axe.
Belos feels the cold bite of iron just above the inside of his knee. He swings his axe down as Lesya quickly jerks the blade back, then his left leg twists and gives, blood spurting from the gash.
The champion tries to stand in his stupor but cannot rise, and in place of the roaring crowd is only stunned silence. She takes the labrys from his grasp and uses the blade's edge to knock off his one-horned helmet, revealing the disfigured face beneath —one half marred by flames, the taut mass of scarred flesh pulls his lips into a permanent, sickly grin. Belos grits his teeth, fingers curled around the hilt of a dagger at the back of his armor, one last chance. It is not enough. He moves to strike, but Lesya kicks the blade from his hand and begins to pace around him —a rusting iron sword held tight in her bloodied right hand.
She steps behind him and jerks his head back. Lesya will make sure Belos looks upon her as he draws his final breaths. Her cry is harrowing as she saws through Belos' thick neck with the dulled sword, but then she severs the last tendons, and his head comes free —body flopping forward, still twitching with the last beats of his cruel heart staining the sand.
Lesya stumbles, lifting the maimed head high for all to see. The crowd erupts a mix of cheers from those blood-drunk and protests from those who know what this defeat means —upheaval in the rankings of the arena. She paces to one of the spear racks at the center of the arena, skewering the champion's head on a spike next to the decaying head of another felled contender. The Beast of Sparta is slain.
But the deafening roar of the crowd fades as Lesya steps away. The blood-lust stupor dissipates, ushering in pain. Her leg gives way, streaked with blood and the fabric of her chiton is torn open. The blood on her hand is dark and drying —not her own— but when she presses a hand to her side, it feels as though she's been touched by the Monger's hot poker again, and the blood on her fingertips and running down her front is bright red, slick and warm. Lesya looks up at the crowd, wishing to rise once more, yet she cannot do so. For a wavering moment, she straightens, then falls —laurel eyes turned upward to see a full moon shining down through the netted ceiling.
TUNDAREOS IS THE first to fling himself from the stands and into the arena, feet carrying him toward his sister as soon as he hits the sand. "Lesya!" She does not move. He falls to his knees at her side, skimming the burgeoning bruises and open wounds. Her eyes are open wide and darting around. For the first time, Tundareos sees fear in his sister's eyes. Even demigods fear death. Time is not on their side, and they will find little aid from those who head the fighting pits. "Fuck," he hisses, moving swiftly —stripping off his chlamys.
Covering the wound, he brings her hands over the cloth and urges her to press down to stay the bleeding before lifting her into his arms and starting toward the gates. "My–" Lesya grimaces, voice fading as she points to the bloody twin blades lying on the arena floor "–my blades." He curses her for worrying about something so trivial, but Timotheus sees what she is pointing at and reclaims the two blades, following his brother —and fearing it may be too late.
They come across a Spartan camp on the shores not far from the arena. "Hold!" The Spartiate at the entrance calls, leveling his spear to stop them from coming closer. The small group looks to be vagabonds who've lost their way, but as they draw closer, the soldier sees a woman covered in blood with hair like flames. The men with her have little regard for their safety, expressions of worry twisting their faces. The Spartan lowers his spear but not his guard as they draw nearer.
"Do you have supplies to spare?" Timotheus asks, desperate and hoping they will not recognize him as a former Athenian commander. Their arrival brings the rest of the Spartans occupying the camp to the entrance.
"I know her!" One of the hoplites points out. It was hard to forget fighting alongside a copper-haired goddess of war. "We fought together on Pylos." He'd seen her save Brasidas and face down the champion of Athens. It's a sight he will not soon forget and is enough for them to welcome the trio into the small camp, albeit reluctantly. They point to the captain's tent, and the soldier most skilled in medicine joins them.
The Spartan peels back the stained chlamys and grimaces. It is not a clean-cut, and they do not have the means to properly suture the flesh back together, but she would not have made it to Lato for better treatment. He calls for water, linen, and boiled wine then looks back at the two men who accompanied her. It does not seem possible one renowned across Hellas for fighting like Enyo or Eris with the strength of a dozen men should be wounded in such a manner. "The fighting pits," Tundareos says, sensing the question before the Spartan can ask.
He does what he can with what little supplies he has. The bleeding ceased, and the dried blood and sand washed clean from her side and leg. Only time will determine if the copper-haired demigoddess of war will live to fight again. "The wound is clean, but–" the soldier spares a glance back at the thick linens wrapped around Lesya's middle "–I have seen men die from less," he confesses. Demigoddess or not, she still bleeds like every other man, and only someone of great strength and with the gods' favor could overcome such a wound.
Tundareos shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose when he sees Lesya stir and wake. "By the gods," he starts, "you're a bigger fool than I thought." She turns her head to look at him as he paces. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?" He doesn't try to hide the anger in his voice. Tundareos spent his life searching for his sister, and now that he's found her...he cannot bring himself to think of losing her —to know he'd given up his life for this. Lesya doesn't answer, the pounding in her head is nigh deafening.
"Is that why you wanted to come here?" He asks. But death would be too easy, and the gods were not so merciful as to let it end. She turns her head, feeling hot tears slip from her eyes. I am still Enyo, after all. "I will not pretend to know what you feel, Lesya, but if you continue to do this, it will kill you," Tundareos says, and Lesya knows he's right. There is little choice for her, and they both know it. "I will not watch you do this to yourself."
Lesya grits her teeth, forcing herself to sit up —the pain is almost paralyzing. "If I do not hunt them," she says, breathing labored, "then they will never stop hunting me." She will have no peace until the last cultist is snuffed out, ripped from this world by the roots. Until then, she must pursue them and break their hold on Hellas —must find Deimos. "I am a fool," Lesya admits, barely a whisper. "But–" she shakes her head "–what they did to me. I can't forget, and I won't forgive." But revenge is its own executioner.
the end is nigh.