Gordon Doherty - Assassin's Creed Odyssey - The Official Novelization

Suddenly there was silence, broken only by a gentle sigh of wind. Then came a strained bleat. A white-haired Spartan priest dragged a goat through the lines, stopping in front of the Wolf. Kassandra stared at the withered old man: the laurel wreath wrapped around his head and the bony, bare shoulders. Memories of that night came streaking back. He chanted to the sky, holding a blade to the terrified animal’s neck, beseeching the Gods for their favor, before yanking his arm back. The goat thrashed and fell, blood leaping from its gaping neck in spurts.

When the animal fell still, the priest declared that the Gods were pleased. The Wolf raised a hand, and every single spear fell level, like iron fingers pointing across the plain at the Athenians.

An unarmored Spartan behind Kassandra lifted a set of auloi —forked pipes that jutted down from his mouth like the tusks of an elephant—then sucked in a breath and blew. A low, dreadful moan poured from the pipes and across the plain. Kassandra’s flesh crept, the sound of the “Hymn to Castor” shifting the earth from long-buried memories: of childhood feasts, of better times. As she looked over the field to the Athenian lines, she realized her mouth had drained of all moisture, and her bladder had swollen to the size of an overripe melon. She knew she could face and defeat any of the men there, one to one. And damn, had the Wolf not trained her endlessly in the art of phalanx fighting during her childhood, showing her how to stand, how to be strong and immovable, when to push, when to strike? Had she not shown those Spartans training on the bay just how skilled and worthy she was? Yet true warfare like this was new to her, strange… unsettling.

“Afraid, Misthios?” Stentor asked, posted by her right side.

She did not look at him.

“Marching into battle is like running with chains on your ankles. You cannot turn and run, lest you covet shame. You cannot dodge and duck as you might when you fight a lone foe. You are part of a wall, part of the Spartan machine. And part of the wall you will remain. This is no mere training bout. You will fight and win on this field… or fight and die.” He sighed and chuckled. “But you should rejoice, for those who live on the edge of death are the ones who live the most.”

“You want me to run,” she hissed back. “I will not.”

“Perhaps not. But maybe you will learn something by watching me—for today I will grab glory for the Wolf. I will be his champion. It will be me he seeks audience with once the day is done!”

She eyed him sideways, wondering if it would be best to say nothing more. But she could not help but wonder at what might have been. Had that night on the mountain never occurred, would Stentor even be here? Might it be her instead? Or perhaps Alexios? Her next words slipped out before she could catch them. “The Wolf… if I fall today I will never get to meet him. Tell me about him.”

Stentor flashed her an iron glower. “About his guards, his routines? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You think I have forgotten that you are a misthios?”

She sighed, turning her head to him. “No, I mean… what is he like, as a father?”

Stentor’s iron shell crumpled. She saw for the first time a boy within the man’s eyes. She understood him in that one look. He said nothing in reply. As quickly as his visage had changed, it returned to that cold, hateful mien. On the pipes blared, and Kassandra knew there would be no more talk. So she almost leapt when he did at last reply.

“He is strong. Caring too. A good father, I would say. Yet there are times where it seems that he does not believe so. Times when a distant look comes over him. A sadness descends like a cold mist.” He laughed once—his Spartan demeanor slipping again. “But we all have regrets, I suppose.”

“Aye, we do,” Kassandra replied, her heart hardening, glancing over at the Wolf. And some will be set right soon enough.

The dreadful moan of the pipes fell away. The Athenian jeers and bawdy cries settled too.

Many hundreds of officers on both sides cried for the advance. Like a great arm sweeping across a tabletop, the Spartans and their allies set off at a pace that surprised Kassandra. It was a lockstep walk, yes, but a rapid one, and in utter silence too. While the allies sang or shouted, the Spartans were mute, staring, hateful. The distance between the two lines shrank rapidly. Kassandra saw the Athenian taxiarchy coming for them—a band of hoplites in cloud-white tunics, the right shoulders sapphire blue. Their taxiarchos was bedecked with a plumed attic helm and an ancient bronze thorax and white-leather boots chased with gold, and he led a trilling war cry as they drew closer.

“Elelelelef! Elelelelef!”

Kassandra’s heartbeat sped like a runaway horse. Now the answer to Stentor’s question Afraid? was most definitely yes . She stamped with every footstep, determined not to give in to the prickling dread as the Athenian spear tips drew closer, closer, and then…

Crash!

The lethal points scraped on her shield, driving the breath from her, some speared or swished near her head, some going for her shins. All along the lines, a mighty din of iron and bronze rang out, like metallic fangs gnashing. Some men thrust their lances to displace an opponent’s shield, allowing the comrade by their side to spear the foe in the ribs. Hundreds fell in those first few moments like this, gurgling wet cries and the slap of freed guts hitting the ground ringing out over the deafening fray. A spear scored across Kassandra’s cheek, slashed free a loose lock of her hair. She felt her own hot blood sheet down her face, smelled and tasted it on her lips. The Athenian taxiarchos speared rapidly at her, seeing her as a weak link. Fixed in the wall of Spartan hoplites, all she could do was stay behind her shield and lance back at her opponent.

“Look—the Spartans bring a bitch to the fight!” the officer roared gleefully just as a horrific stink of loosened bowels wafted across the battle lines, accompanied by a hot mizzle of blood. The man’s spear snapped thanks to his efforts, and so too did many hundreds more on both sides. With the gnashing fangs broken, the opposing lines surged together until the shields clashed with a dull thunder. Kassandra found herself nose to nose with the Athenian officer, she and every other Spartan now locked in a shoving match against their numerically superior foe.

“I’m going to cut off your dugs, Spartan bitch,” the Athenian officer snarled, his spittle flecking her face. “Then drag your corpse behind my horse for a mile.”

Stentor was right by her side, his face black with blood.

“Draw your sword, Misthios,” he snarled, doing so himself and ramming his short blade into the throat of the Athenian against whom he pushed. Kassandra saw the taxiarchos move to strike her first, but her lightning-sharp reactions won out: she drew the small curved blade given to her that morning and rammed it, hard, into the bragging taxiarchos’s eye. The man’s boasts became a pained shriek and then he was gone. Another Athenian quickly took his place and the two sides remained locked, pushing and shoving for their lives until, with a series of wet, dying howls, the moment came. The Athenians slipped back a step, then two. The brave songs of war turned to screams of despair. Their numbers had failed to overcome the famous Spartan will. The lines disintegrated, great swathes of Athenians speeding away, throwing down their shields. Kassandra felt the great pressure fall away. Stentor laughed as the Boeotian horsemen raced in from one flank to ensure a rout, while peltasts streamed along the other flank, raining javelins on the few Athenian regiments that still held fast.