Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-one: reunions and hushed whispers

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.