Assassin's Creed Odyssey (The Official Novelization)

by Gordon Doherty

  “I found out what you wanted to know. I know exactly where your mother is.”

  ELEVEN

  Kassandra perched alongside Ikaros, high up on the Adrestia’s spar, her skin sun-burnished and her lips cracked. The boat’s ropes and timbers creaked and groaned and the wind furrowed her loose hair. A year had passed since their flight from Athens—a year of living like prey, the Adrestia like a hare and the pursuing Cult galleys like wolves. They had chased hard for months, driving the Adrestia north into distant waters, along the Thessalian coast and almost to the distant Hellespont. It was only when winter came that the Cultists realized they could never outpace Barnabas’s ship. That was when they had tried to trap and ambush the Adrestia instead—once when she put into shore for freshwater, and another time in a narrow strait near Skopelos. Both traps failed. By the time spring came, seven of the Cult boats rested on the seabed, along with at least eight more masked demons. Now, in the height of summer once more, it seemed that they had finally, finally thrown off their pursuers. And so they tacked south again and into more familiar waters. The Cyclades . . .

  The island of Naxos.

  She eyed the isle: a sun-washed paradise of woods and silvery rock, a gemstone against the sapphire-silken sea. Aspasia was in no doubt: Myrrine had gone there from Korinthia. Kassandra stamped upon every flicker of hope that tried to rise. There had been too many false leads, too many grim surprises . . . and another one rose into view as they drew closer.

  Boats. No, galleys. Scores of them—all bearing green sails, circling the isle slowly, watchfully. She edged along the spar and hurriedly climbed down the mast

  “Another blockade?” Reza said as she came to the prow alongside him. “Those boats are from Paros,” he said, nodding toward the neighboring isle just a short way west. Paros was a stark contrast to Naxos, stripped of most of its trees, and the bare hills addled with quarries, great white gouges that looked like the bite marks of a titan.

  “Why would Paros be blockading Naxos?” said another crewman. “Naxos and Paros are part of the Delian League, allies and both under the protection of Athens.”

  “The marble trade drives a wedge deep between these two proud islands.” Herodotos sighed. “See the quarries? The marble from these parts is famed. Phidias demanded that his materials for the acropolis works were sourced from here. But when one island chews through its own supply and begins to run short”—he gestured toward the many chalky white pits on the bleak hills of Paros, then nodded to bountiful Naxos—“jealous eyes turn toward neighboring isles.”

  “Well,” Barnabas growled, “I’ve not spent all this time running from Cultist bastards and bringing you here just to turn away from a damned blockade.” He caught the eyes of Reza and the nearest crewmen.

  Kassandra watched as they leapt into position, as the sails were hoisted and the oars met the water, the keleustes taking up the chant she had first heard on her approach to the Megarid.

  “O-opop-O-opop-O-opop . . .” he boomed, striding up and down the boat’s length, passionately punching a fist into his other palm, spittle flying.

  The Adrestia picked up into a terrific speed, spray lashing Kassandra, the prow pointing at the nearest Parian galley. “Hold on to something,” she called over to Aspasia and Herodotos.

  They did as she said, knuckles white, eyes wide. And then . . .

  Nothing.

  The ship they sped toward tacked out of their path, and the one behind it halted, leaving a wide opening in the circle through which they slipped.

  Kassandra saw a man by the rail of the stopped galley, draped in a white cape, with a mop of blond hair and a fleshy face. He smiled at her as the ship passed. It was not a welcoming expression.

  “He knows better,” Barnabas chuckled proudly as the Adrestia slowed into normal rowing speed and headed toward the shore.

  Unconvinced, Kassandra stared at the man for a time. When they drew closer to the shore, she scanned the sandy beaches. Farther along the coast, she spotted a pair of the blockading boats coming in to land. Gripped by the sight, she watched as Parian soldiers leapt out, onto the bay. They swarmed like ants past the marble portico of an unfinished bay temple, on toward an old stone fortlet perched on a rocky cape. Herodotos, Barnabas, Reza and the others joined her to watch this swift taking of what was surely a key Naxian shore holding. Suddenly, the grove of carob trees at the top of the shore shuddered. The Parian invaders hesitated, glancing back at the woods . . . just as a knot of Naxian horsemen exploded from them. They lay flat in the saddles, encased in baked-brown leather helms and breastplates, holding long pikes, and they exploded into a trilling cry of war. There were only about twenty of them, charging nearly one hundred Parians. The lead Naxian rider was swift and majestic, carrying a spear high as if in example to the rest, wearing a leather helm and a cage of iron covering the face. This rider ducked a thrown Parian lance and hurled a javelin into the thrower’s neck. An instant later, the Naxian cavalry wedge plunged home into the invading Parian mass. Men screamed and fell, and Kassandra and all watching knew the cavalry counterattack would be victorious even as the fray fell from sight when they drew closer to the shore.

  The sea turned pale turquoise as they reached the shallows, and they passed over a vivid mosaic of color on the seabed—a crescent of coral in orange, gold, deep blue and pink.

  The hull ground over white sand and the ship came to a rest. Kassandra eyed the thickly wooded hills inland.

  “Phoenix Villa,” Aspasia said, pinpointing a settlement on one promontory.

  “Go, find her,” said Barnabas, clasping a hand to her shoulder, his eyes wet with tears.

  “Aye, Misthios, you have struggled long enough to come this far,” agreed Herodotos. “Waste no more time.”

  * * *

  • • •

  She moved as if she were on one of her old stealth jobs for Markos, slipping uphill into the island interior, through lush woods of mulberry and juniper. At one point, she heard the thunder of hooves and ducked into the undergrowth, watching as the score of riders from the bay battle galloped along the open track from the beach, their brown armor glistening with semidried blood. Victory indeed. When she reached the vicinity of the Phoenix Villa, she found an unwalled town, of which the villa was the centerpiece. In truth, the “town” was almost part of the woods—trees and outcrops rising beside homes, rope bridges linking sections of the settlement that lay across a narrow ravine, and a waterfall splashing down into an opal-blue tarn. In the glorious sunshine, women carried urns of goat milk, men carefully lifted shards of honeycomb from bees’ nests and children and dogs herded sheep, goats and oxen. She threw a stick into the nearby trees, drawing out the two men guarding the villa’s main door, then slipped inside the ancient and grand villa and soon found herself creeping along the wide hallway on the upper floor. That was when she heard the voices.

  “Archon, the Parians have crippled our fleet, stolen our trade, silenced our messengers, captured Navarchos Euneas. We are being strangled out of existence,” said a man. Kassandra edged her head around the doorway to see the high, wide council chamber, with dark, polished-timber floors and aged rugs. One wall was arrayed with open shutters allowing the sultry air and sunlight to bathe the room. A wide table sat in the center of the chamber, upon which was pinned a hide map of the islands and nearby waters. Two officers stood, wearing the bloodstained brown cavalry armor of the twenty from the shore battle. They had both prized off their helms. Both were disconcertingly young—one more an adolescent boy.

  “Still, we drove them off today, Archon,” added the older of the two officers, “with you riding at our head. The fortlet on the Ferryman’s Finger remains ours—despite the ring of Parian boats, they have no foothold on our shores. Since the day you first came to these shores and drove off the tyrant king, you have been our shield.” His voice brimmed with pride and veneration and he beat a fist against his chest in sa
lute. His words were directed at one side of the room, the target obscured from Kassandra.

  “Do not lose heart,” the archon replied from that spot. “There will be a way to break the noose, to find freedom again.” The sound of the voice was like the note of a golden lyre, stirring up a thousand memories in Kassandra’s heart. She began to tremble. When the archon walked into view, armored like the two officers and holding the cage-visored helm underarm, Kassandra gripped the edge of the doorway, suppressing a gasp, unable to blink or look away.

  Mother? she mouthed. There could be no doubting it: her dark hair threaded with silver and held in a braided ring around her crown, eyes edged with age lines, body hugged with well-scarred armor. She watched, numbly, as Myrrine directed the two officers’ attentions to the map, giving them clear and firm instructions on where the island’s soldiers were to be posted, which landing sites were to be watched, and what resources needed to be harvested for new ships, arms and armor.

  After a time, Myrrine dismissed the two officers. Kassandra ducked into the shadows as they strode from the room, then edged around the doorway again. Myrrine, alone, had strolled out onto a balcony, shaded from the sun by a striped awning. This was it. This was the moment. Kassandra stepped numbly into the room and over to the balcony door behind her. Then she stepped on one floorboard that groaned treacherously. Myrrine swung to face her like a warrior.

  Their eyes met for the first time in over twenty-three years. Myrrine stared for an age, frozen in disbelief, then her gaze fell to Kassandra’s waist . . . and the Leonidas spear.

  “How . . . how can it be?” Myrrine whispered, dropping her helm.

  Kassandra drank in the sight of the woman before her. “Mother,” she whispered in reply.

  They came together like gloved hands clapping and remained locked like that for what felt like a glorious eternity. Spikes of emotion rose and fell within Kassandra. It had been the first time she had embraced another since she had cradled poor Phoibe’s body, the first time she had let her heart swell like this ever since it had nearly burst with grief that day.

  “How? How can it be?” Myrrine croaked. “Every night, for more than twenty-three years, when I close my eyes I still see you falling.”

  They parted just a little, noses a finger’s-width apart, both faces wet with tears. “I have so much to tell you, Mother. That night—”

  Myrrine placed a finger over her lips. “No. First, I just want to feel you in my arms again,” she said with a sob, hugging Kassandra even tighter than before.

  After an age, they sat together. Kassandra told Myrrine everything: about the night on Mount Taygetos, about Kephallonia, about dear Phoibe, the mission to the Megarid and the confrontation with Nikolaos . . . and then the bleak dealings with the Cult ever since.

  “They have been there all throughout our lives, Mother. It was the Cult of Kosmos—not the Oracle—who was behind the foul order to toss little Alexios from the mountain that night.”

  Myrrine’s hard, unflinching expression told her this was not a surprise. That was when she realized she had not actually told Mother everything. The hardest part of all remained unsaid.

  “In Argolis, I uncovered a dark secret,” she said, her body tensing. “I know you visited the healer’s sanctuary.”

  “I took Alexios there,” Myrrine said quietly. “He did not die on the mountain, you see.”

  Kassandra smiled sadly. “I realized that. And that it was you I heard coming through the bone pit that night. I ran when I heard the noise, thinking it was someone coming to finish me off. If only I had possessed the courage to wait.”

  Myrrine clasped and squeezed her forearm. “You are here, after all that has happened to you. You have courage in your marrow, Kassandra. Perhaps if the healers near the Asklepios Sanctuary had managed to save Alexios, then he too might have grown to be like—”

  “Mother,” she interrupted, eyes closed, tears building. “Alexios lives.”

  Silence.

  “Mother?” she said, opening her eyes to see Myrrine staring, haunted.

  “I have rebuilt my life from ashes . . . I lived with the shades of you and him on my shoulders. And now you tell me that he too still walks the earth?”

  Kassandra nodded sadly.

  “Where is he?” she said then caught her last word as if it was a secret. Her face paled even further and she began to tremble. “They . . . have him, don’t they?”

  Kassandra faced Myrrine, and they clasped hands. “The Cult use him as their ‘champion.’ They call him Deimos.”

  “Deimos? They named my boy after the God of Dread?” Myrrine’s eyes searched every patch of the balcony.

  “Mother, he is not the boy he might have been had he been raised by you. The Cultist bitch, Chrysis, poisoned his mind, feeding him with hate and anger.”

  “Then she will pay,” Myrrine drawled.

  “She already has. She took an ax in the face as punishment.”

  “Good,” Myrrine snapped, her face twisted in malice, her top lip lifting like a hound satisfied it had driven off a rival . . . then sagging as a deep sob arose from within. “But my boy . . .”

  Kassandra guided her back inside, whispering tender words in her ear.

  * * *

  • • •

  Months passed. Kassandra and Myrrine ate together, slept in the same bed, walked everywhere as a pair. Kassandra felt her revelation about Alexios was eating at her mother’s conscience but she could not help herself from enjoying this precious time with her. She learned of Naxos’s troubles and advised where she could. Aspasia, Barnabas, Herodotos and the crew came to the village and were afforded good homes in the leafy paradise. Barnabas even took a fondness to one of the local women, Photina, allowing her to tattoo his back and braid his hair. Reza and his closest crewmen went spearfishing every day on the coast, catching bream then flicking obscene hand gestures at the Parian blockade or standing knee-deep in the shallows, roaring and swinging their genitals at the enemy boats. Herodotos immersed himself in his writings, cataloging the flora and fauna of this wonderful island and jotting down local folktales and making sketches of old ruins. Ikaros spent the days soaring across the forest, finding rich pickings among the dense woods. Aspasia withdrew into herself, spending much time alone. Kassandra visited her often though, just to be sure she was well. She was taciturn but never sad. She always seemed to be lost in thought, her eyes bright, her mind engaged in some deep contemplation.

  One day Kassandra and Myrrine sat on the balcony again, wearing soft linen robes, looking down the green-wooded hill to the shore and the sparkling waters, the sun bathing their bare feet and legs, the awning shading their faces.

  Neither spoke for an age, and the silence was blissful. But it did not last.

  “We have to find him, to cut him free,” Myrrine said.

  Kassandra turned to her mother.

  “Whatever Alexios has become,” her mother continued, “we have to try to save him.”

  In truth, Kassandra had known this moment was coming, that those words hovered behind Myrrine’s lips and hers, that these few months were but a passing calm. She sucked in a deep breath, preparing to become a misthios once again.

  “But . . .” Myrrine gazed across the shore and the sea, “there is no damned way off of this island.”

  Kassandra eyed the Parian boat ring, drifting silently around like a school of sharks. “We got in easily enough.”

  Myrrine’s eyes grew hooded. “They let you in, Kassandra. No one gets out. That is why I came here today, to watch, to see if my best remaining sailors might prove me wrong.”

  Kassandra followed Myrrine’s outstretched hand, the finger pointing to a sleek galley setting sail from the stony turret at the Ferryman’s Finger. The boat’s hull was emblazoned with yellow, orange and deep red—tongues of flame. The Siren Song, Kassandra realized, having seen the
wondrous boat in the Naxian harbor. A knot of brown-armored Naxians were aboard. “You send your best ship at them?”

  “It has to be this way. All my other boats have failed.”

  The ship’s sail bulged as it sped toward the blockade ring. Myrrine grasped the balcony edge, her nails scraping as she watched. The galley made excellent time, spearing toward a gap between two boats . . . and then the nearest two green-sailed Parian triremes tacked around, scenting blood. They came together upon the Siren Song, one ramming the aft through and the other raining arrows on the crew. The Naxian ship pivoted up on its rear as the water frothed and gurgled. Men and timber pieces spread out from the disaster, the Parian archers picking them off with ease. The sounds of distant screaming gradually thinned and ended.

  Myrrine slumped. “Another fifty good soldiers lost. Men I could not afford to lose. I have less than one hundred spearmen left on the island.”

  Kassandra watched as the Parians roped in one thrashing Naxian. She saw a figure in a white cape aboard the archer ship and realized this was the smiling man from the day they had arrived. He seemed to be directing his crew as they stripped the Naxian survivor naked, then slashed at him with knives. The man screamed, his pale body laced with red lines. Then they roped his ankles and tossed him back in the sea. The blockade continued silently, the roped man being dragged behind the archer ship, leaving a red trail in the water. A short time later, fins broke the surface and the man’s screams rose once more as sharks tore him apart.

  “The bastard on that boat, who is he?” Kassandra asked.

  “The Archon of Paros,” Myrrine replied dryly. “Silanos.”

  “Silanos?” The sound of the name was like a bell struck with a gong. She thought of the eldritch gathering in the Cave of Gaia, the words of the masked one with that same name ringing through her head: I almost have the mother in my grasp. It must be her we focus on.