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

“The dance of war is almost over,” Stentor boomed triumphantly. “See how the Athenians fear us? Perikles flees to cower in his Parthenon, surrounded by playwrights and sophists. He knows Athens’s days in Megara are numbered. And Athens itself will be next!”

But as the bold projection rang out, Kassandra saw something just along the Spartan line: the Wolf, injured and separated from his kinsmen and surrounded by four hardy Athenians. No, he is mine! she roared inwardly. Without a moment of hesitation, she lurched forward, bringing her shield down on the back of one Athenian’s head, stabbing a second in the flank. He fell like a stone. The third Athenian leapt and tensed to thrust his spear at the Wolf. The spear never left the Athenian’s hand as Kassandra hammered her sword into his ribs, cracking through his exomis, skin, gristle and bone, plunging into one lung. He fell in paroxysms of agony, taking the blade with him. The Wolf finished the final attacker with a blow of the shield boss to the face—breaking the foe’s nose, then sending a swift and expert swipe of his spear across the man’s throat. The Athenian fell away, head jerking, tongue lolling.

Kassandra flopped to her knees, panting, her hands devoid of weapons and the Wolf right in front of her. He stared at her for a moment before his men surrounded him. In that solemn, eerie way, they once again lifted their spears and made the dust-bowl battlefield shake with a mighty, “ Aroo! ”

While the allies exploded in continued celebrations, the Spartans fell silent, that one cry their only extravagance. They merely planted their spear butts in the dust and took quiet drinks from their waterskins, a few speaking in muted tones.

To kill or die for our homeland, Nikolaos had once told her, that is our job. We do it without pomp or spectacle.

One group calmly stripped a few Athenian dead of their armor, digging spears into the dust in an X-shaped frame, then decorating it with the enemy breastplates, helms and shields. In the end, it had the look of a four-headed Athenian hoplite. A simple, silent stele of victory. Flies gathered over the carpet of ripped corpses in a growing drone, and carrion hawks began to descend.

A soldier emerged from the Wolf’s circle of men. “You are the misthios?”

She looked up, nodding.

“The Wolf was impressed by your efforts today. When we draw back to the Pagai camp, he requests that you come to him,” he said.

She saw Stentor watching from the corner of her eye, his face dark with fury.

That evening, the air was thick with that sulfurous stench that precedes a storm, and the skies began to crackle and groan, eager to explode. Kassandra said little as she returned from battle and climbed aboard the beached Adrestia . Shrugging off Barnabas’s attempts to examine her cuts and bruises, she simply snatched up her half lance, tucked it away in her belt and turned to stare up at the coastal bluffs, the Spartan camp and the nearby promontory to which she had been summoned.

“I will return soon,” she growled. “Be ready to sail at haste… Our lives will depend on it.”

With that, she hopped down onto the bay and strode toward the rising cliff path, her black cloak flapping in the growing wind and her tail of hair whipping in her wake. Atop the bluffs, she came to the promontory… and froze.

There he was, standing with his back turned, staring moodily out into the dark and choppy ocean as if it were an old foe. She edged toward him, her heart beating hard. The sight of his wind-writhing, blood-red cloak threw a flash of memory at her. The walk uphill, she thought. To Taygetos…

She noticed strands of white in the black curls of hair that hung from his helm, and the short stretch of shin visible below the hem of his tribon cloak revealed knotted, age-worn legs. Strong but tired.

She made not a sound as she drew closer, but he sensed her presence, his head tilting down and to one side just a fraction.

Of course he heard, she hissed to herself. He is a Spartan, trained in stealth from birth.

She stopped.

He turned to her, slowly.

Thunder growled overhead.

He regarded her, through the T-shape visor on his helm, with the same laconic stare that Stentor had obviously learned from him. His body, naked under the cloak, was laced with scars, including a freshly bandaged gash earned against the Athenians in the dust-bowl battle. The years had not been kind. Nor will I, she raged within.

“So you are the shadow that has been following my army for months,” he began. “Come, tell me of yourself, of why you fight so well and all for no purse.”

His voice was as deep as she remembered, but it had loosened a little with age.

She stared into his eyes, sparkling in the first burst of lightning—a jagged thorn that lit the bay. Why don’t you remember me? she seethed within. After what you did?

“My trust is hard-earned, as you will have realized. But now that you have it, there will be many future purses for you to earn and—”

The wind howled, blowing Kassandra’s cloak back like a war banner, revealing her belt… and the half spear of Leonidas.

The Wolf fell silent. Another shudder of lightning, behind Kassandra, betrayed his eyes in full now: wide, staring, disbelieving. “You…” he croaked.

Kassandra’s hand went for her ancient spear, and as soon as she touched it, the past seized her in its claws.

I stared into that inky abyss, hoping against all hope that this was not real. The cold sleet bulleting down upon me said otherwise. Alexios was dead.

“Murderer!” The priest’s shrill cry cut through the wintry storm like a scythe. “She killed the ephor!”

“She has cursed Sparta, condemned us all to the doom predicted by the Oracle,” shrieked another.

Silence… then: “She must die in retribution. Nikolaos, throw her over too—make her pay for her dishonor.”

I felt icy fingers crawl up my back. Turning from the abyss, I saw Mother thrashing, still held from behind by one old man, and Father, mighty shoulders rounded, face torn with horror.

“She. Must. Die,” keened a skull-faced priest. “If she lives you will be cast into exile, Nikolaos. Shame will follow you like a spirit. Your wife will loathe you.”

“No!” Myrrine shrieked. “Don’t listen to them, Nikolaos.”

“Even Helots will spit on your name,” the priest continued. “Do as a true Spartan would.”

“For Sparta!” many others howled.

“No!” Mother rasped, her voice all but gone.

At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be with them all, by the fire in our home, for this all to have been a wretched dream. Father stepped toward me, the barrage of wicked demands raining down on his shoulders, Mother’s pleas fending them off. I opened my arms to take his embrace. He would protect me, shield me—I knew this just as I knew Apollo, God of the Sun, would rise from the east every morning. He halted before me, sighed deeply, and stared not at me, but through me and into eternity. At that moment I swear I saw the light in his eyes gutter and die.

Father seized my wrist, his hand an iron claw. I gasped as he lifted me. He took a step toward the abyss and I felt my feet scrape at the edge and then at nothing.

“No… no! Look at me, Nikolaos,” Mother cried. “It’s not too late. Look at me!”

“Father?” I whimpered.

“Forgive me,” he said.

And then he let go. My father, my hero, chose to let me go.