Both paused to reflect on the weasel-like misthios, Skamandrios, thinking of the hundred possible fates he might have suffered. Burning, flaying and gradual dismemberment were some of the Cyclops’s preferred methods of dispatching his foes. Skamandrios was hardly a great loss to society, but he had prided himself on his stealth and quickness. The Shadow, some had called him.
Kassandra shook her head clear. “But getting back to the point . . . we steal his eye?”
Markos cowered a little and shrugged pathetically. “You are the misthios, my dear. I would only slow you down. For this to work it is vital, vital, that you are not spotted.”
“I’m rather more concerned that he will catch me,” Kassandra said.
“He will not catch you, for he is not at his den.” Markos wagged a finger. “As you know, almost every private galley on this island has been summoned to join the Athenian fleet. The Adrestia is one of the last vessels left. The Cyclops is out on the hunt, and that galley is his prey. He has some grudge with the ship’s triearchos, I hear.”
Phoibe wriggled free of Kassandra. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“Nothing, my young girl,” Markos answered first. “Kassandra and I were just discussing how much money I owe her. She just has one last job to do for me and then she will have it all. Isn’t that right, my dear?” he asked Kassandra.
“Then we can eat like queens, night after night?” Phoibe asked.
“Aye,” Kassandra said quietly, stroking Phoibe’s hair.
“Excellent,” Markos purred. “You will stay here tonight and enjoy a full meal: fried mullet, octopus, freshly baked loaves, yogurt, honey and pistachios and several kraters of wine. And then, a comfortable bed and a good rest. Tomorrow, you can be on your way.” Then he whispered so Phoibe would not hear, “And remember, you must not be seen or all three of us will be . . .” He drew a finger over his throat and stuck out his tongue.
Kassandra refused to let Markos out of her sour stare.
TWO
Despite the promised warm and soft bed, she slept not a moment, troubled by the task that lay ahead. She stared at the head of her lance, propped near the bed, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, for what felt like hours before deciding to rise while it was still dark. Phoibe, pressed against her, did not stir. She kissed the girl’s head before swinging her legs from the bed, dressing and slipping away from the vineyard and out into the night-chilled countryside. She stayed close to the western shoreline. In the predawn gloom, she heard wild cats hissing and yowling, and kept one hand on her hunting bow as she went. The sun soon breached the horizon and spread its fiery wings across the island, combing across the hills and meadows. On one high point, she saw the neighboring island of Ithaka, weltering in the rising heat. The remains of the ancient Palace of Odysseus stood on a hillside there, fingers of light streaking through that ghostly ruin. She gazed at the crumbling palace as she always did. And who could not? It was a wistful monument to a long-dead hero, an adventurer who had traveled across the world and back, fighting in a great war with his wits as well as his weapons. She glanced around the brushland of Kephallonia with a renewed disdain. Stop dreaming. I will never get off this damned island. Here I live and here I will die.
On she went and soon she came to the root of the rugged western peninsula that struck out into the sea like a thorn. She crouched there like a hunter, sipping her water, the cicada song growing in intensity like the heat as she studied the land. The Cyclops’s hideout sat upon a flat-topped, natural mound roughly half a mile ahead, near the peninsula tip. The sprawling compound was a hideout in name only—for the Cyclops did not need to hide from anyone. A low wall closed off the estate, grass and pink geraniums sprouting from the cracks in the weathered stonework. Within, a villa stood proud, roofed with terra-cotta tiles, the pale marble façade and Doric columns painted in ochre and sea blue. She counted six of his hired thugs upon the outer walls, walking back and forth along the crude parapets, watching the countryside. Two men stood statue-still outside the eastern gatehouse, and she could see a similar gateway on the northern wall too. Worse, Kassandra realized, the ground that lay between her and the estate walls offered little cover for her approach—just a few cypress trees and olive stands, but mostly low, thin brush—and four more men strolled to and fro across this open ground, wearing wide-brimmed hats to shield their eyes from the sun, watching for any movement, and all in plain sight of each other and the men on the walls. These outlying watchmen were effectively a border, sealing off this thorn of land as if it was the Cyclops’s own country.
No way through.
There is always a way, Nikolaos spat.
And so she looked north, down the brush and rock slopes leading to the shore. The deep blue waters lapped gently upon the thin strip of shingle down there. One edge of her lips flickered in loathing acceptance as she realized that Nikolaos was right. Thumbing the cork from her waterskin, she tipped it upside down and let the precious water trickle away into the parched golden earth.
Keeping low and watching the closest of the four outlying sentries, she picked her way carefully down to the shore. There, she wrapped her spear and bow in oiled leather and strapped both across her back, before wading into the bracing shallows. When the waters rose to her breasts, she launched herself prone, stretching out with her arms, kicking back with her legs to corkscrew through the water, westwards, along the peninsula coastline and toward its tip. Weeds and tiny fish stroked and brushed at her legs and belly until she was out in the deeper sections. With every second stroke of her arms, she glanced up at the shoreline on her left. No sign of the nearest outlier. Suddenly, dolphins leapt and chattered, out in the deeper waters. She heard the scrape of boots on the shore and saw the tip of a wide-brimmed hat, coming to investigate. With a full breath, she plunged under the surface. Through the undulating blue, she saw the dolphins speeding along like her. Looking toward the shore, she saw the shins of the guard, wading into the shallows for a better look. Up through the water’s surface, she saw the distorted outline of the man, the shape of his spear held across his chest. But he waded no farther than knee-deep: he had seen nothing but dolphins at play, and he seemed quite happy to stand there and bask in the sunlight . . . all while the breath in Kassandra’s lungs grew stale and then fiery. If she surfaced now she was as good as dead. If she did not, the same fate awaited. Black spots burst and spread around the edges of her vision as the spent breath escaped from her lips in a flurry of bubbles like rats fleeing a sinking skiff. The cold hand of panic tried to seize her, yet calmly, she took her thumb from the mouth of her air-filled drinking skin, sucked a deep and full breath and swam on, revitalized.
* * *
• • •
He had watched her from afar, seeing how she had taken time to judge her approach to the Cyclops’s den. Now he watched her surface gracefully, just downhill from the peninsula tip and the estate’s northern gateway, and not too far from his vantage point either. So far, she was living up to her reputation.
“And soon we will see if she is as skillful and deadly as they claim,” mused the watcher, folding his arms and letting a grin rise across his face.
* * *
• • •
Kassandra levered herself from the water and onto a flat, sun-warmed shelf of stone. She picked her way up the rocky hinterland, keeping low behind bushes as she went. Within a stretch of a hundred strides or so, she was almost dry from the sun. Nearing the estate’s northern walls, she settled down behind a boulder then peeked up to gauge the two guards flanking the gateway. They wore leather corselets and one sported a red headband. One gripped a good spear diagonally across his chest and the other carried a small ax in his belt. Through the gates she saw no movement around the villa itself, none patrolling the rooftop terrace or standing at the entrance vestibule. The Cyclops had taken most of his men with him, she realized. The outer walls were the key. If she could slip by the watch
here . . . she was into the unguarded interior. These gate sentries had to be dealt with, but how to do so without alerting the dozen or so others strolling the parapets? A gentle shuffling sounded right beside her and her heart almost leapt from her mouth in fright. “Ikaros, by all the Gods!” she hissed. Ikaros gave her a hood-eyed look, then lurched up into flight. Kassandra ducked, one eye peeking over the boulder to see the spotted eagle glide toward the gate. The two sentries didn’t notice until he was close, and with a flap of his wings, he sped up and over the head of one guard, talons extending to snatch the red headband.
“Malákas!” the guard yelped, grabbing at his own scalp and howling at the bird as it sped on inside the estate. The pair lumbered inside after Ikaros. A few of the men on top of the wall laughed and heckled as they watched the spectacle.
Kassandra’s eyes stayed on the backs of the distracted two as she rose and sped low, cat-soft on her feet. Just as she slipped through the gateway, the pair gave up their chase of Ikaros and turned back toward her. As if caught by the swing of an invisible boxer, Kassandra threw herself to her right and from their line of sight, landing in a tangle of wild gorse sprouting near the base of the walls. The bush settled and she held a burning breath in her lungs, watching through the undergrowth as the two guards walked right past her . . . and back to their places at the gateway. The other men on the walls turned to face outwards too. She was inside, unseen.
Heart thumping, she rolled her eyes toward the villa. The main entrance beckoned like a shady maw, the twin red pillars flanking it like bloody fangs. She picked her way across the compound, ducking behind wagons, strewn barrels, piled hay and wooden outhouses until she was a short arrow shot away. Her legs shook, primed to sprint inside. It was only bitter experience that chained her there, on her haunches: Can’t see a damned thing in there, she mused. There might be a dozen of the Cyclops’s men standing in those shadows. She looked up instead—the roof terrace sported a doorway into the upper floor. Creeping forward, she seized an ivy vine and walked herself up the villa wall. A foot slipped, kicking a terra-cotta tile on the porch roof. The tile cracked and slid, spinning away toward the ground. Kassandra let go of the vine with one hand and caught the tile, exhaling in relief.
Stealth, Nikolaos hissed in her head. A Spartan must be nimble and silent, like a shade.
“I am not a Spartan. I am an outcast,” she growled to chase away the voice, then hopped up over the marble balustrade.
The arched doorway leading into the villa’s upper floor was just as shady as the main entrance. Sucking in a deep breath, she edged inside, one hand poised near her spear haft, the other extended for balance should she need to roll or leap clear of any attack. For a moment, she was blinded by the darkness, her head flicking in every direction and her braided tail lashing like a whip. In her mind’s eye she saw grim-faced sentries rushing her, silvery blades chopping down . . . and then her eyes adjusted and she saw just a quiet, deserted bedchamber. The pale-washed walls were licked with bright paint, depicting a scene of battle, with a one-eyed champion triumphing over many smaller foes. A grand bed lay at one end of the room, laden with plush silk blankets. Nothing in here, she mused . . . until she turned around and saw the plinth of Parian marble by the chamber hearth. The trophies resting upon it chilled her to her marrow.
Three desiccated heads, mounted on wooden stands like prize battle helms. Kassandra paced over toward them, guardedly, as if they might sprout bodies and attack her. But these three were long dead. One, a bad-toothed man with long hair, had clearly died in pain, going by the death rictus fixed on his face. The next, a young lad who had had his nose sawn off going by the ragged mess at the center of his now-peaceful face. The third, a middle-aged woman, was locked in a sightless scream, mouth ajar as if crying out: Behind you!
A floorboard groaned.
Kassandra spun around, partly drawing her spear, fright lashing her like a tongue of fire.
Nothing.
Her heart thundered against her ribs. Had the noise been her imagination? She returned her spear to her belt and flicked a glance back at the heads. None of them was Skamandrios, she was certain. Perhaps the weasel had stolen whatever he was after and escaped—fled to the north to live the life of a rich man? The thought instilled a bravado in her, and she crept to the bedchamber doorway with a degree of confidence. Edging her head out the door to the landing to look around, she saw nothing to the left, nothing to the right and then, straight ahead . . . two guards!
She went for her spear again, only to realize the “guards” were in fact ancient suits of armor. Bronze cuirasses, helms and greaves probably robbed from the ruins of the old palace on Ithaka. Webs had gathered inside the helms like sagging faces.
Scowling, she paced across the landing, eyeing the two doors ahead. One had to be the Cyclops’s strongroom. Most on the island said he slept on his gold, but this was the next closest thing. Edging to the leftmost door, she twisted the handle slowly. With a clunk, it relaxed and the door whined as it floated open. The noise sent a thousand cold-footed rats scampering through Kassandra’s guts. She held her breath for a moment . . . but nobody outside had heard the noise. Relieved, she peered into the room. Nothing—just stark, stone walls, unpainted or plastered, and a plain wooden floor. Not a jot of furniture except for a shabby old cupboard on the right-hand wall. Its doors were missing and it was empty.
Stepping to her right, she gently turned the handle of the second door. It opened silently to reveal a vision of gold. A finger of sunlight shone in through a narrow oculus in the ceiling. Dust motes floated lazily in the gilt light, illuminating a trove of plunder: ivory chests of coins and charms; a bench laid out with silver circlets, tokens and cups too; a shelf bedecked with lapis lazuli stones of the most mesmerizing blue. Opals, sardonyx, emeralds, necklaces of amethyst beads. An ornamental war bow chased with electrum. And there, to the rear of the chamber, just where the shaft of sunlight became dark shadow again, sat the eye. She licked her dry lips. It rested on a cedarwood plinth, fixed so as to stare at her with its golden pupil. This was the greatest treasure of them all, more valuable than a pocketful or even a sackful of coins or gems. All she had to do was step across the room, past the other riches . . . and take it.
Take it!
She took a step forward, then halted. It was the slightest of sensations that stopped her: a smell of something incongruous. Behind the odor of metal and polish a scent of . . . death, decay. Her eyes rolled left and right. The stonework just inside the left edge of the doorway was scarred, as if a mason had been chipping at it to make a grid of dots. The right edge of the doorway was clad in cedar wood, not stone. Her eyes narrowed. Dropping to her haunches, she held out her bow and reached over the threshold of the room carefully. With a gentle dunt, she pressed the bow’s tip down upon the first floorboard inside the room.
With a whoosh, the cedar panels to the right of the doorway suddenly exploded with movement and a gust of disturbed air. She fell back, snatching her bow to her chest as a mass hurtled across the doorway and crashed against the stone on the left with a metallic clank and a shower of sparks. As she rose, she beheld the contraption: a bed of iron spikes, the full height of the door, that would have ripped her apart had she set foot on that floorboard. She stared at the forlorn corpse of Skamandrios, entangled in the spikes. He was more skeleton than flesh, just leathery rags of skin dangling from the bones. A spike had pierced his temple, another his neck, several his chest and limbs. “At least it was quick for you, Shadow,” she said flatly.
The trap was wedged in place and the way into the strongroom blocked. She stepped back, vexed, then heard the dull chatter of two guards outside, drawing closer to the villa.
“The sun grows strong. I’ll tend to the horses in the stable, you lock up the villa,” one said to the other. “Master will be back tonight and he’ll not be happy if the rooms aren’t cool enough for him.”
A moment la
ter, she heard their footsteps on the lower floor and the steady clunk and click of doors and windows being closed over and locked.
No time, Kassandra realized, her breath quickening. She had to get out, but she could not leave without getting the eye. She closed the door to hide the sprung trap, then looked all around the upper landing. No other way into the strongroom. She thought of the oculus on the ceiling—perhaps she could climb up onto the roof and drop into the chamber that way? No, the opening was too small even for a child to fit through. Her thoughts spun in a thousand different directions until they settled on the first room again. Why would a rich, power-hungry thug like the Cyclops have a bare room in his villa? she mused, glancing around to confirm that every other part of the place—upstairs at least—was bedecked with trophies and finery. She came before the first room’s open door and tapped her way in with her bow. No traps. Inside, she turned to face the wall shared with the strongroom and eyed the shabby, doorless cupboard with suspicion. Placing a hand on either side of it, she edged it as quietly as she could to one side and stared at the wooden hatch it revealed. Heart surging with anticipation, she twisted the handle and crawled inside the golden room, wracked with suspicion that every movement might bring a hidden blade scything down upon her or send her toppling into a concealed pit of spikes. But there was nothing more. She reached out to pluck the obsidian eye from the plinth, feeling the cold weight of it in her hand, knowing that it would pay off her troubles and Markos’s. As she moved back out onto the landing and toward the bedchamber and the climb back down the ivy, elation began to swell in the pit of her stomach, and then she heard a sigh.
“Just the bedchamber and that’s the upstairs done,” the guard mumbled to himself through the opening in an old leather helm that covered most of his face.
Assassin's Creed Odyssey (The Official Novelization) Page 3