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

“Forget the mother,” Diona said, swiping a hand through the air. “She is old and useless now.”

“But I almost have the mother in my grasp,” scoffed Silanos. “It must be her we focus on.”

Silanos’s mask swung to pin Kassandra. “You. What do you think? Should we hunt for our champion’s mother or his sister?”

Kassandra’s throat turned as dry as sand. “I…” she croaked.

“Pah, the answer is neither,” said a third, somewhere behind her. “Both are elusive. Perikles of Athens is not—he wanders around wearing his plumed helm like an archer’s target. Let us cut out his heart and cripple the Athenians and their chaotic and orderless ways. Or perhaps install a leader in his place who more suits our aims.”

These three now began arguing among themselves, and Kassandra slipped away.

On she went, passing through a doorway that led into an antechamber. The rock of the far wall had been hewn into a glorious and terrifying form of a hooded horned snake, rising from the ground, mouth open and fangs bared, its niche-eyes picked out by two glowing candles. A masked man stood before it. Kassandra edged closer to see what he was doing, then trapped a gasp as she saw him lifting his wrists to the fangs and running the skin across the tips. Blood coated his skin and dribbled into a stone trough under the snake’s mouth and the man tilted his head back and gasped in pleasure. His euphoria slid away and his head rolled around toward Kassandra. His eyes—one dark and the other misted—darted behind the mask’s eyeholes, searching her. “Do not let the fangs grow dry, go on, give offering,” he said stepping back, bandaging the two jagged cuts on his wrists.

“Not today,” she said firmly.

“Go on, and give thanks that it is only blood we must offer. Deimos will be demanding we cut off our hands next. The sooner we capture the rest of his bloodline, the sooner we can dispense with our champion and his chaotic, crude ways.”

Kassandra’s silence seemed to evoke suspicion.

“You had best not be thinking of telling Deimos,” he said, stepping closer. “If he knew, he would turn completely to his animal side. He is a living weapon. A fiery steed that cannot be tamed. Power and chaos in one body. He is everything the Cult needs and everything it stands against. If he knew we were about to capture his mother…” He trailed off with a dark chuckle. “Well, let’s just say I do not wish for my nightmares to come to life.”

“Nor I,” Kassandra agreed, suddenly feeling the air in these deep underground vaults turn chilly. She left the antechamber and followed Chrysis, Silanos and Diona, all now moving deeper into the complex. A thousand voices screamed in Kassandra’s head: talk of lands being controlled by the Cult of Kosmos, men offering their own blood, the Oracle of Delphi herself in the palm of these creatures. She wandered in a daze into a great chamber, and felt a deep, reverberating hum shake her to her very marrow. It was the sensation she felt whenever she touched her ancient—and absent—Leonidas spear. But this was something else, something stronger. Much stronger.

Huge stalactites hung from the cave’s high ceiling, and a circle of polished stone in the center of the floor was studded with several dozen cloaked, masked figures: the torturer brute ambled into place with them, as did the one called Chrysis and the one with the bandaged wrists too. Three more hurried in behind Kassandra and took a place in the circle. Each of them sang long, deep notes in a constant drone, and only when it faltered slightly and some of them looked back at her, did she realize she was expected to join them. Striding over to a vacant space she stepped into it, making up the ring. The endless chant filled the cave and sent shivers scampering across her skin, and her eyes beheld the plinth of red-veined marble in the center of the circle, topped with a small, golden pyramid.

The artifact.

The misthios in her instantly valued the piece and imagined what it might buy. The warrior in her wanted to stride forth and challenge every one of these masked whoresons—murderers of her baby brother, destroyers of her life—to a death fight. Her hands clenched into fists under her robe, cursing Herodotos for convincing her to leave her weapons behind. But then she realized that it was the pyramid itself that was resonating, causing the chamber to shiver, sending those strange impulses through her.

One of the Cultists stepped forward, reaching out in great reverence to place a hand over the pyramid. The rest muttered and sighed in envy, some shuffling impatiently, eager to take their turn. Kassandra was sure that it must contain a candle or lamp within, for it glowed, gently, with a golden light. “I see it: invisible chains around the necks and ankles of every man and woman. The dying of the chaotic light. The narrow corridor of thought, of pure devotion, pure order .”

The rest rose in a babble of appreciation. Three more approached, one at a time, to speak of what they saw, before Chrysis whispered to Kassandra. “It works fully only when the champion touches it at the same time as one of us—he sees our thoughts and allows us to see further. But it is still a wondrous thing to place your hand upon it alone. You, you must take a turn.”

Kassandra gulped, grateful for the mask, then stepped into the circle’s center. She reached out, her hand hovering over the pyramid tip. Her heart thundered, the buzz of voices shook the air around her, sweat stole down her back despite the chill, and then…

Crash!

A door at the back of the cave smashed back on its hinges, pins and screws flying loose and the door sagging, broken. A tall, sculpted vision lunged into the chamber and fell into a swaying crouch, like a maddened animal. His legs and arms were hewn with muscle and he wore a white breastplate dripping with golden pteruges and a white cape. His thick, dark waves of hair were held back in a topknot, draped down his back. He wore no mask, and his handsome face was spoiled by a look of uncaged anger. A warrior. A champion. Deimos?

“There is a traitor in our midst,” he snarled. “Forty-two of us there are, and I count forty-two here. Yet how can that be when one of our number lies cold and dead in Kirrha?”

He lifted a severed head and tossed it across the floor.

Kassandra stared at the head as it rolled to a halt, horror rising from the soles of her feet and through her like an icy tide. Elpenor? But she had not cut off his head. This animal must have desecrated the corpse to make a point.

“Who is it?” he raged, his voice like a war drum. “Remove your masks!”

Kassandra’s mind sped, terror rising in her heart.

“That is not our way, Deimos. We choose to remain anonymous to each other,” spoke one Cultist.

Kassandra’s alarm eased a fraction, and then Chrysis stepped forward. “Let us each show our devotion to the Cult by laying a hand on the artifact along with our champion, as has always been the way. Deimos will see what they see and will spot any secrets they harbor.”

Deimos lumbered down the steps from the door and barged into the circle. “Very well,” he snarled, looking at Kassandra—already by the pyramid—up and down. “You, go ahead. Touch it and tell me what you see. You cannot lie, because I will see it too,” he said, placing his hand on one face of the pyramid.

Kassandra stared at the champion. His tawny-gold eyes were ablaze with hatred. For a moment, she saw her own doom in them. But what could she do? She let her palm drop and rest on the opposing face of the pyramid. Nothing. For a moment, she felt a strong urge to laugh at these fools. What happened next was like a mule’s kick to her head.