Journey Into Nyx

by Jenna Helland

  “Why now?” Anax shouted to his strategists at the war council. “What does it have to do with the curse of the severed heads? There are Nyxborn besieging my city! Did Mogis break the Silence? Where is Iroas? Where is the Alamon? Why haven’t my wandering warriors returned?”

  Outside in the corridor, Cymede listened through the door to her husband’s rant. She heard the quieter voice of the general in command of the warriors stationed in Akros.

  “Sir, it was with great wisdom that you locked the city down after fire burned in the sky,” the general said. “We were expecting an attack against the city. Your quick action has prepared us for the worst.”

  Flatterer, Cymede thought. There was no imminent attack, and after beating the war drum so loudly for naught, Anax’s leadership had been questioned.

  “We believe that the omen pointed to an attack on the Alamon, not the city,” the general continued. “Under the command of a warlord named the Rageblood, the Alamon have been targeted and many of them killed. We had numerous reports of bodies in the wilderness.”

  Cymede was distracted by the sound of pounding boots coming toward her. A guard rushed around the corner and skidded comically to a halt at the sight of her. He bowed low as she approached him.

  “Let’s dispense with the scraping, at least while the siege is on,” Cymede said.

  “I—I have a m-message for the king,” he stammered as he stood up. He towered over the queen, but then most men did.

  “What is it?” Cymede asked. Everyone in the Kolophon knew that anything they could say to Anax, they could say to her as well.

  “We caught the perpetrator!” the guard said. “He was leaving another head—in the king’s bed chamber!”

  Cymede was not expecting that news. But she was a master of control, and her face betrayed no emotion.

  “Well, then,” she said. “Take me to him.”

  The full legion of the Meletian Army wasn’t due to arrive at Akros for a week. Elspeth and her companions accompanied the fast-traveling Battlewise contingent and arrived in three days. Including Anthousa and her Setessan warriors, the vanguard army numbered only a hundred soldiers. When they reached the ridgeline above Akros, their first sight of the city was a shock. From their vantage point, the minotaur’s fortification looked like a black noose around the city. Black smoke burned north of the wall where the tributary fed the large estates—that was where Nikka’s home was located. Between the ridge and the fortification lay the flatlands, already a battlefield with burned caravans and unburied dead, killed by the approaching hordes. Nikka jumped off her horse and stared down at the flatlands in horror.

  “You shouldn’t have brought her here,” Daxos said.

  “This is her home,” Elspeth said. “And she’s not a child. She doesn’t need to be shielded from the truth.”

  The vanguard force set up camp on the ridge overlooking the polis. At night the black noose transformed into a ring of fire as the minotaurs lit pyres inside their fortification. The mood inside the Meletian camp was tense. The Meletian general had disagreed with Daxos’s call for action and dismissed Anthousa’s opinions as irrelevant. With no contact with King Anax, the general decided the best thing to do was wait for reinforcements, either from Meletis or from the wandering Akroan army, which should have already returned in aid of their city.

  Anthousa, Elspeth, Daxos, and Nikka were inside their tent. Anthousa and Daxos argued while Nikka brooded alone. Elspeth worried about Nikka while trying to keep Anthousa and Daxos from taking out their frustration on each other.

  “The general is not interested in Setessa’s position—” Anthousa fumed when she was interrupted by a voice outside the tent. Someone requested entry. It was a female voice, and Anthousa opened the door flap to let her inside. A slender figure in a dark cloak stepped inside the tent. When she pushed back her hood, Nikka fell to her knees. The other three were surprised by Nikka’s reaction and stood awkwardly behind her.

  “Queen Cymede!” Nikka said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Please stand,” Cymede said. “I have spoken with your general, and he sent me here.”

  Daxos and Elspeth exchanged a look. “Would you like to sit? Can we offer you something?” Daxos asked.

  “There is no time,” Cymede said. “The minotaurs have blocked every way in or out of the city—except I know a secret way. There are tunnels above the Deyda River Gorge, but only an elementalist can make use of them. The Deyda rejects all other attempts to tame her.”

  Nikka’s eyes widened. “You came through the gorge?” she asked in disbelief.

  “What can we do to help you?” Daxos asked.

  “Even before the siege, my husband was struggling,” she said. “He’d believed he was under some kind of curse. Each day, we would find the severed head of a creature somewhere in the Kolophon. No matter the number of guards, the culprit placed it without being discovered. We consulted oracles and mercenaries alike.”

  “What sort of creatures?” Anthousa asked.

  “Nyxborn,” Cymede told her.

  “Did you find out who was tormenting your husband?” Daxos asked.

  “I believed it to be mystical,” she said, “but it was much more mundane. We caught a satyr sneaking into his chambers. He is some sort of mage who’s able to cloak himself and move unhindered, or at least I believe that’s how he operates. We have him locked up in a cell under the fortress.”

  “With everything else that’s happening, why are you concerned with him?” Anthousa asked.

  “There is some connection between the Nyxborn creatures and the siege,” Cymede said. “The minotaurs who built the wall—they are Nyxborn. When we captured the satyr, he claimed he was an oracle trying to warn us of the Nyxborn threat.”

  “Could that be true?” Nikka asked.

  “Perhaps, but now we can’t find out,” Cymede said. She peered first at Nikka, then Anthousa, and finally her dark eyes settled on Elspeth. “He refuses to talk to us anymore. In fact, he won’t talk to anyone except a single person.”

  “Who is that?” Daxos asked.

  “A woman named Elspeth,” Cymede said, and everyone at the table reared back as if she’d dropped a snake in front of them. “The general said I would find her here.”

  “I am Elspeth, but I know no satyr,” she said. “What’s his name?”

  “He calls himself the Stranger,” Cymede said. “Please, will you come inside and meet with him? In my heart, I feel he has the answers that will break this wretched siege.”

  Once inside the Kolophon, Daxos didn’t want Elspeth to see the satyr alone. He warned her that it could all be a mage’s trick. Elspeth assured him she would be careful and left him fuming with Cymede. She heard the queen reassuring Daxos that someone would stay with her at all times while the guard led her down to the prison level.

  When the guard opened the iron door to the tiny cell and Elspeth saw the satyr, she knew Daxos had worried for nothing. “Stranger” looked so small, even forlorn, chained to the wall in the windowless cell beneath the Kolophon. He was shirtless and shivering, and red paint flaked off his skin. He had a raw and weeping scar on the left side of his chest. When the door opened and he saw Elspeth, his features brightened for a fleeting moment, and then he looked crestfallen once again. When her eyes met his, she remembered the Temple of Deceit where KING STRANGER had been written on the walls. With a sense of revulsion, Elspeth remembered the bodies in the dark corridor that led to Phenax’s temple and the man who had intruded into her mind. The memory caused her throat to constrict, and she took a deep gulp of air.

  “Do you want me to come inside with you?” the guard asked.

  Elspeth shook her head, so the guard retreated to the hall but left the door cracked open.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a seat,” the satyr said.

  “What do you want?” Elspeth said. “And how did you know my name?”

  “I have a friend who speaks highly of you,” the satyr said. �
��His name is Sarpedon, but you may remember him as the Priest of Lies.”

  “I met Sarpedon once,” Elspeth said. She felt disoriented. The satyr was talking about the very thing she’d been thinking about. “He barely knows me. What’s your name?”

  “In Akros I’m called Stranger,” the satyr said.

  “King Stranger?” Elspeth asked.

  The satyr looked surprised. “My own people call me that. I’m surprised it’s traveled so far into the human world.”

  “What do you rule over as a king?” she asked.

  “It’s just a little joke among my people,” he said. “It’s a misinterpretation of my given name.”

  “I saw your people,” Elspeth said, referring to the satyrs at the Takis Estate. “They were absurdly violent in your name.”

  “I have no control over the satyrs,” King Stranger told her. “I am king of nothing.”

  “So why did you ask to see me?” Elspeth asked. She felt irritable. Her skin felt like it was too tight. She wanted the satyr to hurry up and speak his piece.

  “As I was trying to tell you, Sarpedon told me about you,” King Stranger said. “He fell out of favor with Phenax shortly after you spoke to him. But he’s taken up with another god, a god who would like to claim you for himself.”

  “I’m not interested,” Elspeth said.

  “Because you are Heliod’s Champion?” the satyr asked.

  Elspeth took a deep breath, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. “Why are you tormenting the king with the heads of the Nyxborn?”

  “I am concerned with the fate of Akros,” the satyr said. “I was trying to warn Anax of the coming danger. And look, I was right.”

  “Did you consider seeking an audience with the king and talking to him, rather than confusing him with cryptic nonsense?” Elspeth asked.

  “I tried to seek an audience but was refused,” the satyr said. “I knew I needed to get the king’s attention. With all his oracles, they should have read the signs and given him the correct information.”

  “Your timing is unfortunate,” Elspeth said. “The Nyxborn are outside the walls. It’s a little late to warn him.”

  “I am no oracle,” the satyr admitted. “I thought we had more time. But it wouldn’t have done me any good to knock on his door. Anax thinks satyrs are barely smarter than barn animals. But I do love Akros. It’s a testament to the majesty of the gods and doesn’t deserve to be pillaged by minotaurs.”

  “You love Akros?” Elspeth asked.

  “The Iroan Games, my dear,” the satyr said. “If you’ve never witnessed the spectacle of the games, then you cannot understand the joy this city brings my people.”

  During her time in Akros, people had talked about the Iroan Games constantly. Everyone was welcome in the stadium during the competitions. It didn’t matter where they were born or what god they worshiped. Satyrs especially flocked to the city to witness the events.

  “But I still don’t understand what you want from me,” Elspeth said. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with straw. She sensed there would be gaps of logic in his story, but she couldn’t focus on them. And what had Sarpedon told him about her?

  “I can tell you how to win this battle against the minotaurs with no loss of life—at least on your side,” the satyr said.

  “Why don’t you tell King Anax yourself?” Elspeth asked.

  “Really, Sarpedon seemed to think you were smarter than that,” the satyr said with disappointment. “My previous attempts to communicate with Anax were misinterpreted. I am facing Akroan justice in a time of war. If I did try, no one would listen to me.”

  “Why do you suppose they will listen to me?” Elspeth asked.

  “Because you’re not going to tell them it was my idea,” the satyr said. “Remember, you’re a hero of renown. You killed Polukranos, single handedly.”

  “That’s not true …” Elspeth protested

  “If you offer your wisdom in this situation, they will listen,” the satyr said. “And Akros will be saved.”

  “How could you end the siege without anyone dying?” Elspeth asked, curious in spite of the strange circumstances.

  “You’ve come in the castle by way of the Deyda River Gorge, correct?” the satyr said. “The river is the most powerful river in all of Theros. The minotaurs have built themselves a nice little wall, but it’s open at both ends at the edge of the cliff above the water.”

  “But the water is still hundreds of feet below the city,” Elspeth said.

  “Have you no imagination?” the satyr asked. “With the right mages, you could raise the river, sweep the wall clean, and send the invaders tumbling into the abyss.”

  Elspeth visualized what he was saying. Cymede had just demonstrated her incredible skills bringing them up the river by manipulating the rocks and water. A single mage might not be able to do it. But … she remembered Daxos’s playful splash on the banks of Hunter’s Crossing on the day they traveled to the Despair Lands. Daxos had divine skills that Elspeth didn’t understand. Together, two powerful mages might be able to accomplish such a feat.

  “Raise the river and divert it through their fortification,” Elspeth said. The genius of his plan was dawning on her. “No one fights. No one inside the city ever has to raise a sword.”

  “The minotaurs are merely swept away,” the satyr said. “They’re trapped by their own walls in a deluge from which there is no escape.”

  “It’s quite clever,” Elspeth admitted. “Just tell the king. I can’t offer that idea as my own.”

  “You must,” the satyr said. “If it comes from me, it’s automatically suspect. This is a horrible situation for me. I mishandled it from the beginning, and now I can do nothing but sit back and watch the city I love be destroyed.”

  Elspeth felt overcome with sympathy for this small creature, who was simply trying to find a way to make up for what he had done. Something clanged in the hallway, and as she turned her head she missed the flash of red light in the satyr’s eyes.

  “Will you go to the war council and present the idea to the king?” the satyr asked.

  Elspeth hesitated. Her mind was brimming with questions, but with one exception, she couldn’t sort them into coherent sentences.

  “Which god does Sarpedon pay allegiance to?” Elspeth asked. The words felt like pebbles on her tongue. “Whatever god it is, I hope he doesn’t expect anything of me.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t,” the satyr assured her. “How about I arrange a meeting when this siege is over? I’m sure Sarpedon would like a chance to get reacquainted.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Elspeth said, moving to the door. “But please, give him my regards if you see him again.”

  The satyr smiled and jutted his pointy chin at her. “Good luck with the council, Elspeth,” he said. Then he said something else. It sounded like “I’ll see you soon.” But the heavy door swung shut and blocked out his words.

  When Elspeth joined the others at the Heroes’ Podium, Anax was describing the countryside around Akros to Anthousa and Cymede. An ethereal representation of the ridges and mountains hovered above a stone table with carvings of two outward-facing bulls on its base. At the far end of the room, a marble statue of Iroas overlooked the proceedings. Daxos stood in the shadows apart from the others, leaning against a pillar. His face brightened at the sight of her.

  Elspeth joined him at the edge of the room. She still felt strange and disoriented. But her heart pounded with excitement about the satyr’s plan.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He brushed the hair away from her face. “You look feverish.”

  “I will challenge the Rageblood to a fight between the pillars,” Anax said loudly from the center of the room.

  “And what do you think that will accomplish?” Cymede asked. Her voice was deadly calm.

  “The death of the Rageblood!” Anax shouted. “Are you questioning my ability to—”

  “No!” Cymede retorted. “I’m questioning the mi
notaurs’ honor. They won’t respect the rules of the duel just because you do.”

  “You could kill the Rageblood, and the others would continue fighting without him,” Anthousa agreed. “It wouldn’t mean the end of the war.”

  “I have to act,” Anax said. “I can’t sit here like a mouse cowering in a hole.”

  “When is the full Meletis Legion due to arrive?” Cymede asked, turning to look at Daxos.

  “In two days’ time, at best,” Daxos said.

  “And what about Setessa?” Anax asked Anthousa. “Will your people come as well?”

  “The Setessan warriors are at least a day away,” Anthousa said. “But I warn you, our numbers are small. We’ve never supported a standing army. I hear the leonins are watching from the mountains. Have you approached them for aid?”

  “They might join the minotaurs,” Anax said. “Savages with savages.”

  “The Alamon is decimated,” Cymede said. “I heard it from witnesses in the camp. We can’t count on help from our wandering soldiers.”

  “So you expect me to sit and wait for Meletis?” Anax said angrily. “I won’t sit idly by and let them toss plague-infested carcasses into our city. If we wait for the Meletian Army, we will all be dead from the plague.”

  “And I won’t sit by and let you throw your life away to prove you’re a man when no one has questioned it,” Cymede said.

  Anax’s face turned purple, and Elspeth stepped forward. “There is another way …” she began. As she explained the plan to raise the river and sweep the invaders into the gorge, she spoke quickly and without hesitation. It almost felt like the words tumbling out of her mouth weren’t her own. Shy by nature, Elspeth didn’t like speaking to large crowds. But she spoke with rehearsed perfection, and when she stopped, everyone in the room stared at her. She saw the respect in Daxos’s eyes, and it made her feel worthless. But it was too late to go back and tell them that the idea had come from the satyr prisoner chained several floors beneath their feet.

  “That’s brilliant,” Cymede said.

  “It’s madness,” Anax said, but there was no fire in his voice. “You would have to have a mage of incredible power to manipulate the Deyda. Where could you possibly find one in time?”